red-robin by jane abbott author of keineth, highacres, aprilly, etc. with illustrations by harriet roosevelt richards grosset & dunlap publishers new york made in the united states of america ----------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [illustration: the effect was very christmasy--page ] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- to betsy ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents chapter page prologue--a story before the story i. the orphan doll ii. a prince iii. the house of forsyth iv. red-robin v. jimmie vi. the forsyth heir vii. beryl viii. robin asserts herself ix. the lynchs x. the lady of the rushing waters xi. pot roast and cabbage salad xii. robin writes a letter xiii. susy castle xiv. a gift to the queen xv. the party xvi. christmas at the manor xvii. the house of laughter xviii. the luckless stocking xix. granny xx. robin's beginning xxi. at the granger mills xxii. the green beads xxiii. robin's rescue xxiv. madame forsyth comes home epilogue--a story after the story ----------------------------------------------------------------------- illustrations page the effect was very christmasy frontispiece the beautiful little girl had not spoken to her "couldn't i run away with you?" "it's like the house of bread and cake" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- red-robin prologue a story before the story on a green hillside a girl lay prone in the sweet grass, very still that she might not, by the slightest quiver, disturb the beauty that was about her. there was so very, very _much_ beauty--the sky, azure blue overhead and paling where it touched the green-fringed earth; the whispering tree under which she lay, the lush meadow grass, moving like waves of a sea, the bird nesting above her, everything-- and moira o'donnell, who had never been farther than the boundaries of her county, knew the whole world was beautiful, too. behind her, hid in a hollow, stood the small cottage where, at that very moment, her grandmother was preparing the evening meal. and, beyond, in the village was the little old stone church and father murphy's square bit of a house with its wide doorstep and its roof of thatch, and widow mulligan's and the denny's and the finnegan's and all the others. moira loved them all and loved the hospitable homes where there was always, in spite of poverty, a bounty of good feeling. and before her, just beyond that last steep rise, was the sea. she could hear its roar now, like a deep voice drowning the clearer pipe of the winging birds and the shrill of the little grass creatures. often she went down to its edge, but at this hour she liked best to lie in the grass and dream her dreams to its lifting music. her dream always began with: "oh, moira o'donnell, it's all yours! it's all yours!" which, of course, sounded like boasting, or a miser gloating over his gold, and might have seemed very funny to anyone so stupid as to see only the girl's shabby dress and her bare feet, gleaming like white satin against the green of the grass. but no fine lady in that land felt richer than moira when she began her dreaming. of late, her dreams were taking on new shapes, as though, with her growth, they reached out, too. and today, as she lay very still in the grass, something big, that was within her and yet had no substance, lifted and sung up to the blue arch of the sky and on to the sun and away westward with it, away like a bird in far flight. beyond that golden horizon of heaving sea was everything one could possibly want; moira had heard that when she was a tiny girl. america, the states, they were words that opened fairy doors. father murphy had told her much about that world beyond the sea. he had visited it once; had spent six weeks with his sister who had married and settled on a farm in the state of ohio. his sister's husband had all sorts of new-fangled machinery for plowing and seeding, and for his reaping! and father murphy had told her of the free library that was in the town near his sister's home, where he could sit all day and read to his heart's content. father murphy (he had spent three whole days in new york) had made her see the great buildings that were like granite giants towering over and walling in the pigmy humanity that beat against their sides like the rise and fall of the tide; he told her of the rush and roar of the streets and of the trains that tore over one's head. and he told her of the loveliness that was there in picture and music. moira, listening, quivering with the longing to be fine and to do fine things, could always see it all just as though magic hands swept aside those miles of ocean dividing that land of marvel from her ireland. that was why it was so simple to let her dream-mind climb up and away westward. her eyes, staring into the paling blue, saw beautiful things and her thoughts revelled in delicious fancies. that slender, gold crowned bit of a cloud--_that_ was destiny circling her globe, weaving, and moulding, and shaping; moira o'donnell's own humble thread was on her loom! and destiny's face was turned westward. moira saw shining towers and thronged streets and fields greener than her own. far-off music sounded in her ears as though the world off there just sang with gladness. and it was waiting for her--her. she saw herself moving forward to it all with quick step and head high, going to a beautiful goal. sometimes that goal was a palace-place, encircled by brilliant flowers, sometimes a farm like father murphy's sister's and a husband who worked with marvelous contrivances, sometimes a free library with all the books one could want, sometimes a dim, vaulted space through which echoed exquisite music-- she so loved that make-believe moira, moving forward toward glowing things, that she cried aloud: "that's me! _me!_" and of course her voice broke the spell--the dream vanished; there was nothing left but the fleecy cloud, the meadow lark's song, close by. there was just time enough before her grandmother needed her, to run down to father murphy's. she knew at this hour she would find him by his wide doorstep. fleetly, her bare feet scarcely touching the soft earth, she covered the distance to his house. she ran up behind him and slipped her fingers over his half-closed eyes. he knew the familiar touch of the girl's hands. he patted them with his own and moved aside on his bench that she might sit down with him. "father," she said, very low, her eyes shining. "it's my dream again." the old priest did not chide her for idling, as her grandmother would have done. the old priest dreamed, too. "tell me," she went on. "can one go to school over there as long as one likes? is it too grown-up i am to learn more things from books?" the old father told her one could never be too old to learn from books. he loved her craving for knowledge. had he not taught her himself, since she was twelve? he looked at her proudly. "father!" she whispered now, and the rose flush deepened in her face. "it's danny lynch that comes every evening to see me." now father murphy turned squarely and regarded her with startled eyes. this slip of a girl was the most precious colleen in his flock. "and, father, it's of america _he_ talks all the time!" the old priest shivered as though from a chill. sensing his feeling, moira caught his hand quickly and held it in a close grip. "but if i go away it's not forgetting you i'll be! oh, who in all this world has been a better friend to moira o'donnell? who has taught moira but you?" "child--" "sure it's grown-up i am! see!" she sprang to her feet and stood slimly erect. "see?" he nodded slowly. "yes. and your old priest had not noticed. moira--" he caught her arm, leaned forward and peered into her face as though to see through it into her soul. "moira, girl, is it courage i have taught ye? and honor? and faith?" her heart was singing now over the secret she had shared with him. who would not have courage and faith when one was so happy? with a lift of her shoulders, a tilt of her head, she shrugged away his seriousness. "if you could only see me, father, as i am in my dream. oh, it's beautiful i am! and smart! and rich!" "not money," broke in the priest with a ring of contempt. "sure, no, not money! but fine things. oh, father," she clasped her hands childishly. "it's fine things i want. the very finest in the world! and i want my danny to want them, too." "fine things," he repeated slowly. "and will ye know the fine things from the dross, child? that wealth is more times what ye give, aye, than what ye get? it's rich ye are of your fine things if the heart of you is unselfish--" "what talk, you, father; it's like the croaking frogs in the widow finnegan's pond you are! but, sh-h-h, i will tell you what i saw, as real as real, as i lay dreaming--destiny herself, as fine as you please, sailing to the new world, a-spinning on her loom. she had moira o'donnell's poor thread and who knows, father murphy, but maybe this minute it's a-spinning it with a thread of gold she is!" the girl's eyes danced. "ah, 'tis nonsense i talk, for it's a dream it was, but my poor heart's so light it hurts--here." the old man laid a trembling hand upon her head. under his touch it bowed with quick reverence but not before she had seen a mistiness in the kindly eyes. "it's god's blessing i ask for ye--and yes, may your dream come true--" "your blessing for danny, too," whispered moira. "for the both of ye!" "sure it's a crossing granny'll be a-giving me and no blessing," laughed the girl. it was her own word for granny's sharp tongue. "i'd best be off, father dear." "wait." the old man disappeared through his door. presently he came out carrying a small box. from this he took a crumpled package. unwrapping the tissue folds he revealed, in the cup of his hand, a string of green beads. "oh! oh! how beautiful!" cried the girl. "are they for me?" with the youthful certainty that all lovely things were her due. "yes. to remember my blessing." he regarded them fondly, lifted them that she might see their beauty against the sun's glow. "'twas in a little shop in london i found the pretty things." moira knew how much he must love them as a keepsake--that visit to london was only next in his heart to the trip to america. she caught his hands, beads, tissue wrappings and all. "oh, it's precious they are! and you too!" the father fastened them over the girl's shabby dress. "they are only beads," he admonished. "but it's of this day they'll remind you." he watched moira as she ran off down the lane. he noted the quick, sure tread of her feet, the challenging poise of her head. "colleen--" he whispered with a smile. "little colleen." he turned to his door and his lips, even though they still twisted in a smile, moved as though in prayer. "and may god keep pure the dream in the heart of ye!" chapter i the orphan doll november--and a chill wind scurrying, snapping, biting, driving before it fantastic scraps of paper, crackly leaves, a hail of fine cinders. an early twilight, gray like a mist, enveloped the city in gloom. through it lights gleamed bravely from the grimy windows rising higher and higher to the low-hanging clouds, each thin shaft beckoning and telling of shelter and a warmth that was home. high over the heads of the hurrying humanity in a street of tenements moira lynch lighted her lamp and set it close to the bare window. with her it was a ceremony. she sang as she performed the little act. without were the shadows of the approaching night--gloom, storm, disaster, perhaps even the evil fairies; her lamp would scatter them all with its glow, just as her song drove the worries from her heart. her lamp lighted, she paused for a moment, her head forward, listening. then at the sound of a light step she sprang to the door and threw it open. a wee slip of a girl, almost one with the shadows of the dingy hallway, ran into her arms. "and it's so late you are, dearie! and so dark it's grown--and cold. your poor little hands are blue. why, what have you here, hidin' under your shawl? beryl lynch! dear love us--a doll!" with a laugh that was like a tinkling of low pitched bells the little mother drew the treasure from its hiding place. but as her eyes swept the silken splendor of the raiment her merriment changed to wonder and then to fear. "you didn't--you didn't--oh, beryl lynch, you--" "steal it? no. give me it. i--found it." but the terror still darkened the mother's eyes. "and where did you find it?" "on the bench. she left it. she forgot it. ain't it mine now?" pleadingly. "i waited, honest, but she didn't come back." mrs. lynch was examining the small wonder with timid fingers, lifting fold after fold of shining satin and dainty muslin. "who was she?" she asked. "a kid." little beryl kindled to the interest of her story. had not something very thrilling happened in her simple life--a life the greatest interest of which was to carry to the store each day the small bundle of crocheted lace which her mother made. "she was a swell kid. she played in the park, waitin' for a big man." "did she talk to you?" breathlessly. beryl avoided this question. the beautiful little girl had _not_ spoken to her, though she had hung by very close, inviting an approach with hungry eyes. "she was just a little kid," loftily. then, "ain't the doll mine?" mrs. lynch patted down the outermost garment. "yes, it's yours it is, darlin'. at least--" she hesitated over a fleeting sense of justice, "maybe the little stranger will be a-coming back for her doll. it's a fair bit of dolly and it's lonesome and weeping the little mother may be this very minute--" beryl reached out eager arms. "it's an orphan doll. i'll love it _hard_. give me it. oh," with a breath that was like a whistle. "_ain't_ she lovely? mom, is she _too_ lovely for us?" the timid question brought a quick change in the mother's face, a kindling of a fire within the mother breast. she straightened her slender body. "and if there's anything too good for my girlie i'd like to see it! isn't this the land where all men are equal and my girl and boy shall have a school as good as the best and grow up to be maybe the president himself?" she repeated the words softly as though they made a creed, learned carefully and with supreme faith. why had she come, indeed, to this crowded, noisy city from her fair home meadows if not for this promise it held out to her? "and isn't your brother the head of his class?" she finished triumphantly. "and it's smarter than ever you'll be yourself with your little books. oh, childy!" she caught the little girl, doll and all, into an impulsive embrace. from it beryl wriggled to a practical curiosity as to supper. she sniffed. her mother nodded. "stew! and with _dumplin's_--" she made it sound like fairy food. "ready to the beating when your father comes." "where's dale? and pop?" "it's dale's night at the store. and pop'll be comin' along any minute. i've set the lamp for him." "i'm hungry," beryl complained. she sat down cross-legged on the spotless scrap of carpeting and proceeded with infinite tenderness to disrobe the doll. "do you think she will like it here?" she asked suddenly, looking about the humble room which for the lynch's, served as parlor, dining-room and kitchen. now its bareness lay wrapped in a kindly shadow through which glinted diamond sparks from much-scrubbed tin. "it's _nice_--" beryl meditated. she loved this hour, she loved the singing tea-kettle and the smell of strong soap and her mother's face in the lamplight, with all the loud noises of the street hushed, and the ugliness outside hidden by the closed door, against the paintless boards of which had been nailed a flaming poster inviting the nation's youth to join the navy. "but maybe this home'll be--too different," she finished. the mother's eyes grew moist with a quick tenderness. her beryl, with this wonder of a dolly in her arms! her mind flashed over the last christmas and the one before that when beryl had asked santa claus for a "real doll" and had cried on christmas morning because the cheap little bit of dolldom which the mother had bought out of her meagre savings would not open or shut its eyes. and now--the impudent heart of the blessed child worrying that the home wasn't good enough for the likes of the doll! "it's a good home for her where it's loving you are to her. it's the heart and not the gold that counts. and who knows--maybe it's a bit of luck the dolly'll be a-bringing." as though a word of familiar portent had been uttered beryl lifted a face upon which was reflected the glow of the little mother's. babe as she was, she knew something of the mother's faith in the fickle god of chance, a faith that helped the little woman over the rough places, that never failed to brighten her deepest gloom. did she not staunchly believe that someday by a turn of good fortune she and her danny would know the america and the good things of which they had dreamed, sitting in the gloaming of their ireland, their lover's hands close clasped? but for that hope why would they have left their dear hillsides with the homely life and the kindly neighbors and good father murphy who had taught her from his own dog-eared books because she was eager and quick to learn? through the fourteen years since they had come to america those girl-and-boy dreams had gone sadly astray, but the little wife still clung to the faith that they'd have the good things sometime, her danny would get a better job and if he didn't there was young dale, always at the head of his class in school and even the baby beryl, as quick as anything to pick out words from her little books. "a good luck dolly!" beryl held the doll close. her eyes grew round and excited. "then i can ride all day on a 'bus and go to the zoo, can't i? and can i have a new coat with fur? and go to coney? and shoot the shoots? and can dale ride a horse? and can dale and me go across the river where it's like--that?" nodding to the poster. mrs. lynch rocked furiously in her joy at beryl's anticipations. the floor creaked and the kettle sang louder than before. "that you can. and it'll be a fine strong, brave girl you'll be, going to school and learning more than even poor old father murphy knew, god love him. and by and by--" but a heavy toiling of steps up the stairs checked her words. that slow tread was not her big danny nor the young dale! at a knock she flew to the door. "oh, and if it isn't mister torrence." she caught the old man who stood on the threshold and laughingly pulled him into the room. "it was afraid i was that it was bad news! danny lynch isn't home yet but you shall stay and eat dumplin's with us--the best outside of our ireland--" [illustration: the beautiful little girl had _not_ spoken to her] "no! no!" protested the old man, regretfully. "my old woman's waitin'! _bad_ news! it's _good_ news i bring. dan's had a raise. he's foreman of the gang now. and i stepped 'round to tell ye the good news and that dan'll be a-workin' tonight with an extry shift and'll not be comin' home to dinner, worse luck for him!" sniffing appreciatively at the pleasant odor from the stove. "a raise? my dan a foreman?" moira lynch caught her hands together. "it's the good luck! and it's deservin' of it he is for no man on the docks works harder than my big dan." her eyes shone like two stars. "well, ye'll want to be a-eatin' the dumplin's so i'll go along. good-night, mrs. lynch." "god love you, mister torrence," whispered moira, too overcome to manage her voice. closing the door behind her unexpected visitor she turned and caught the wondering beryl into her arms. "and i was a-thinking it would never come! it's ashamed i should be to have doubted. my big dan!" "is it the dolly that's brought us the good-luck, mom?" interrupted beryl, round-eyed. "a foreman!" cried the mother in the very tone she would have used if she had said "a king." she-danced about until the floor creaked threateningly. "our good fortune is coming, my precious. and it's fine and beautiful my girl shall be with a dress as good as the next one. wait! wait!" she flew into the tiny bedroom, returning in a moment with a small box in her hands. from it she lifted a string of round green beads and held them laughingly before beryl's staring eyes. "my beads! you shall wear them this night. it's the good old father's blessing." she clasped them about beryl's neck, fingering them tenderly. "pretty beads. pretty beads," cried the little girl. suddenly quieted by a rush of memories mrs. lynch sat down and took beryl upon her lap. "beryl darlin', was the likes of that other little girl--the one who forgot the dolly--fine and beautiful?" "oh, yes!" the child's voice carried a note of wonder. "and you shall be fine and beautiful, too, moira lynch's own girl, just as i used to dream for my own self, the selfish likes o' me. you shall go to school and learn from good books. didn't the old father tell me of the fine schools he had seen when he visited his sister in america? and anybody can go--anybody!" little beryl felt that it was a solemn moment. she lifted serious eyes. "i promise," she drawled, with a gravity out of all proportion to her six years, "i promise to go to school and learn lots like dale and be fine and boo'ful so's my 'dopted dolly will like me as well as--that other kid. i've gotta be good 'nough for her. so there." the child could not comprehend the obstacles which might threaten such a standard; she stared bravely into the unblinking eyes of the doll who smiled back her graven smile. then: "i'm hungry," she declared, suddenly deciding that dumplings were more important than anything else. "and can my dolly sit in pop's seat?" "that she can," cried the mother, going to her "mixin'." "and what a gay supper it will be--with the new dolly and the pretty beads and the dumplin's. oh, himself a foreman!" chapter ii a prince promptly at nine o'clock, young dale lynch turned the key in the door of "tony sebastino, groceries" and started, whistling, homeward. three times a week, from the close of school until nine o'clock, he worked in the store, snatching a dinner of bananas, or bread and cheese, between customers. because "mom" had whispered that there were to be "dumplin's" this night and that she would keep some warm for him, and because the wind whipped chillingly through his thin clothing, he broke into a run. his homeward way led him past a bit of open triangle which in the neighborhood was dignified by the name of park, a dreary place now, dirty straw stacked about the fountain, dry leaves and papers cluttering the brown earth and whipping against the iron palings of the fence. dale, still whistling, turned its corner and ran, full-tilt, upon a bit of humanity clinging, like the paper and leaves, to the fence. "giminy gee!" dale jumped back in alarm. then: "did i scare you, kid? oh, say, what's the matter?" for the face that turned to his was red and swollen with weeping. "y'lost?" this was dale's natural conclusion, for the hour was late, and the child a very small one. "i lost--my cynthia." "your--_what_?" "my--my cynthia. she's my b-bestest doll. i forgot her." the voice trailed off in a wail. dale, touched by her woe, looked about him. certainly no cynthia was visible. by rapid questioning on his part he drew from her the story of her desertion. she had played a nice game of running 'round and 'round and counting the "things," waiting for mr. tony; cynthia did not like to run because it shook her eyes, so she had put her down on the edge of the straw where the wind would not blow on her. and then mr. tony had come and had told her to "hustle along" and she "had runned away and for-g-got cynthia!" "well, i guess she's somebody else's cynthia now, kid. things don't stay long in the parks 'round here." dale seemed so very old and very wise that the tiny girl listened to his verdict with blanching face. he knew, of course. "where d'you live?" demanded dale. "why, you're just a baby! anybody with you?" the child pointed rather uncertainly to one of the intersecting streets. "i come that way," she said, then, even while saying it, began to wonder if that were the way she had come. the streets all looked so much alike. she had run along the curb, so as to be as far away as possible from the dark alley ways and the doors. and it had been a long way. her lip quivered though she would not cry. after cynthia's fate, just to be lost herself did not matter. "well, don't you know where you live? what's the street? i'll take you home." " patchin place," lisped the child. dale hesitated a moment to make sure of his bearings. "well, then, come along. i know where that is. and you forget 'bout your cynthia. you've got another doll, haven't you? if you haven't, you just ask santa claus for one. why, say, kiddo, what's this? you lame?" for the little girl skipped jerkily at his side. "that's just the way i'm made," the child answered, quite indifferent to the shocked note in the boy's voice. "i can walk and run, but i go crooked." "what's your name?" "robin forsyth." she made it sound like "wobbin force." "oh, wobbin force. funny name, isn't it? and what's your ma and pa going to say to you for running off?" putting a small hand trustingly into the boy's big one, the child skipped along at his side. "oh, nothing," she answered, lost in an admiring contemplation of her rescuer. "what's they, anyway?" "a ma? don't you know what your mother is?" little robin met his astonishment with a ripple of laughter. "oh a _mother_! i had a lovely, lovely mother once but she's gone away--to heaven. and is a pa a jimmie?" "a--what?" dale had never met such a strange child. "'cause jimmie's my parent. i call him parent sometimes and sometimes i call him jimmie." if his companion had not been so very small dale might have suspected an attempt at "kidding." he glanced sidewise and suspiciously at her but all he saw was a cherub face framed in a tilted sky-blue tam-o'shanter and straggling ends of flaming red hair. "jimmie won't scold me. _he'd_ want me to try to find cynthia." robin smothered a sigh. "he wasn't home anyway." "d'you live all alone? you and your jimmie?" "oh, yes, only aunt milly's downstairs and grandpa jones is 'cross the hall, so i'm never 'fraid. they're not my really truly aunt's and grandfather's--i just call them that. and jimmie leaves the light burning anyway. what's your name? and are you very old? are you a man like jimmie?" dale, warming under the adoration he saw on the small face, felt very big and very manly. he returned the little squeeze that tugged on his hand. "oh, i'm a big fellow," he answered. "you look awful nice," the little girl pursued. "just like one of my make-believe princes. i wish you lived with jimmie and me. i wouldn't mind cynthia then." "but the princes never lived with the little girls in the stories, you know," argued dale, finding it a very pleasant and unusual sensation to act the rôle of a prince even to a very small girl. "you have to find me, you see." miss robin jumped with joy. "oh, goody, goody! i'll always make b'lieve you are a prince and i'll find you and you must find me, too. you will, won't you?" "you just bet i will," promised dale, easily. "here's your street." he stopped to study the house numbers. suddenly a door flew open wide and a bareheaded man plunged into the street, almost tumbling upon them. "robin! good gracious! i thought you were--stolen--lost--" robin, very calm, clasped him about his knee. "i _was_ lost, jimmie. but this very big boy brought me home. he's a prince--i mean he's my make-believe prince." "but, robin--" the man turned from the child to dale. "i found her way down by sheridan square. she was hunting for her doll she'd left there." "while i was walking with mr. tony this afternoon i played in the park and i forgot cynthia." "good heavens--and you went way off there all by yourself to find the thing?" in her pride of dale, robin overlooked the slur on cynthia. "i went alone," she repeated, "but i came home with my prince." gradually robin's father was recovering from his shock. the muscles of his face relaxed; he ran his fingers through his thick hair, red like the child's, with a gesture of throwing off some horrible nightmare. to dale he looked very boyish--with a little of robin's own cherubic expression. "well, say, you gave me a fright, child. and you must promise not to do it again. why, i can't ever leave you alone unless you do." he turned to dale, who stood, lingering, loath to leave the little robin under the doubtful protection her jimmie offered. "i'm no end grateful to you, my boy. if there's anything i can do for you--" he slipped one hand mechanically into his pocket. "_i_ don't want anything." dale spoke curtly and stepped back. "it wasn't any bother; it's a nice night to walk." with a child's quick intuition robin realized that her gallant prince was about to slip out of her sight. her jimmie had pulled his hand from his pocket and was extending it to the boy. he was not even inviting him to come in and smoke like he always invited mr. tony and gerald and all the others. but of course princes wouldn't smoke, anyway. she waited until her father had finished his thanks, then, stepping up to dale, she reached out two small arms and by holding on to dale's, drew herself up almost to the boy's chin. upon it she pressed a shy, warm kiss. "good-bye, prince. you will hunt for me, won't you? promise! cross your heart!" dale, flaming red, confused, promised that he would, then wheeled and stalked off down the street. after he had rounded the corner he lifted his arm and wiped his chin with the sleeve of his coat. then he stuck his hands deep in his pockets and whistled loudly. but after a moment, at a recollection of sky-blue eyes underneath a sky-blue tam-o'shanter, he chuckled softly. "a prince! gee, some prince!" but his head instinctively went higher at the honor thrust upon him. when he returned from the store, dale usually found his mother sitting by the lamp crocheting. but tonight everything was different; scarcely had he stopped at their landing before the little mother, quite transformed, rushed to greet him and tell him the wonderful bit of good fortune. before it his own adventure was forgotten. "and it's only a beginning it is--it's the superintendent he'll be in no time at all, at all," finished mrs. lynch. "and we can move? and i can join the boy scouts? and go to camp next summer? and have a pair of roller skates?" mrs. lynch nodded her head to each question. behind each note of her voice rippled a laugh. "yes, yes, yes. sure, it's a wonderful night this is." "where's pop now?" "working with the extra shift," the wife answered, proudly. "any dumplings?" eagerly. "and i was forgetting! bless the heart of you, of course i saved the biggest. 'twas like a party tonight for i dressed your sister in the beads. it's worn out she is, god love her, with the excitement and trying to keep her wee eyes open 'til her pop come home. hushee or you'll waken the lamb now." dale was deep in thought choosing the words with which he would tell the good news to the "fellows" on the morrow, his mother was busying herself with the "biggest" dumpling, when a peremptory knock came at the door. with a quick cry mrs. lynch dropped her spoon--why should anything intrude upon their joy this night? a man stood on the threshold presenting a curious figure for he wore a heavy coat over a white duck suit. where had she seen such a suit before? with a catch at her heart she remembered--at the hospital, that time dale had been run over. "oh!" she cried. "my dan!" "mrs. lynch?" the hospital attendant spoke quickly as one would who had a disagreeable task and must dispose of it without any delay. "your husband's had an accident--he's alive, but--you'd better come." mrs. lynch stood very still in the centre of the room--her hand clutching her throat as though to stifle the scream that tore it. "my dan--hurt!" she trembled but stood very straight. "quick, dale, we must go to him. my dan. no, no, you stay with beryl. oh, _hurry_!" she implored the interne, rushing bareheaded past him down the stairway. "_hurry._" for a few moments dale stared at the half-open door. in his thirteen years he had experienced the pinch of poverty, even hunger, the pain of injury, but never this overwhelming fear of something, he did not know what. pop, his big, strong pop--hurt! pop, who could swing him even now, that he measured five feet three himself, to his shoulder! oh, no, no, it could not be true! someone had made a mistake. someone had cruelly frightened his mother. hadn't their luck just come? hadn't pop been made a boss? "mom-ma!" came beryl's voice, sleepily, from the other room. "mom-ma, what's they?" glad of anything to do dale rushed to quiet his little sister. he bade her, brokenly, to "never mind and go to sleep," and he pulled the old blanket up tight to her chin, his eyes so blinded with tears that he did not see the waxen head pillowed close to beryl's. then he sat in his mother's chair and dropped his head upon the table and waited, his hands clenched at his side. "i _won't_ cry! i _won't_ be a baby! mom'll maybe need me. i'm big now!" he muttered, finding a little comfort in the sound of his own voice. * * * * * poor robin's prince; alas, he felt very young and helpless before the trouble which he faced. big dan lynch, he who had been the fairest and sturdiest of the county of moira's girlhood, would never work again--as superintendent or even foreman; the rest of his days must be spent in the wheeled chair sent up by the sympathetic miss lewis of the neighborhood settlement house. it was fixed with a contrivance so that he could move it about the small room. little beryl started school which made up for a great deal that had suddenly been taken from her life, for mother never sat by the lamp, now, or crocheted. she worked at the settlement house all day and all evening busied herself with her home tasks. the "lucky dolly" beryl hid away in paper wrappings. somehow, young as she was, she knew her mother could not bear the sight of it. and dale worked every day at tony's, going to night school on the evenings when he had used to go to the store. a tightening about the lips, an older seriousness in the lad's eyes alone told what it had cost him to give up his ambition to graduate with his class, perhaps at its head. little robin with the sky-blue eyes was quite forgotten! chapter iii the house of forsyth it was a time-honored custom at gray manor that harkness should serve tea at half-past four in the chinese room. on this day--another november day, ten years after the events of the last chapter--harkness slipped through the heavy curtains with his tray and interrupted madame forsyth, mistress of gray manor, in deep confab with her legal advisor, cornelius allendyce. mr. allendyce was just saying, crisply, "will your mind not rest easier for knowing that the forsyth fortune will go to a forsyth?" when harkness rattled the cups. then, strangest of all things, madame ordered him sharply away with his tray. such a thing had never happened before in harkness' experience and he had been at gray manor for fifty-five years. he grumbled complainingly to mrs. budge, the housekeeper, and to florrie, madame's own maid, who was having a sip of tea with mrs. budge in the cosy warmth of the kitchen. florrie asserted that she could tell them a story or two of madame's whims and cranks--only it would not become her, inasmuch as madame was old and a woman to be pitied. "poor thing, with this curse on the house, who wouldn't have jumps and fidgets? i don't see i'm sure how any of us stand it." but florrie spoke with a hint of satisfaction--as though proud to serve where there was a "curse." harkness and mrs. budge, who had lived at gray manor when things were happier, sighed. "it's an heir they be talking about now," harkness admitted. "you don't say so!" exclaimed mrs. budge and florrie in one breath. up in the chinese room madame forsyth was saying; "do you think any child of that--branch of the family--could take the place of--" "oh, dear madame," interrupted the lawyer. "i am not suggesting such a thing! i know how impossible that would be. but on my own responsibility i have made investigations and i have ascertained that your husband's nephew has the one child. the nephew's an artist of sorts and doubtless has his ups and downs--most artists do. now i suggest--" "that i take this--child--" mr. allendyce tactfully ignored the scorn in her voice. "exactly," he purred. "exactly. gordon is the child's name. a very nice name, i am sure." "the child of an obscure artist--" "ah, but, madame, blood is blood. a forsyth--" "p'ff!" madame made a sound like rock hitting rock. indeed, as she sat there, her narrow eyes gleaming from her immobile face, her thin lips tightly compressed, she looked much more like rock than flesh-and-blood. her explosion had the effect of exasperating the little lawyer out of his habitual attitude of conciliation. "madame, i can do no more than advise you in this matter. i have traced down this child as a possible heir to the forsyth fortune. however, you have it in your power to will otherwise. but let me say this--not as a lawyer but as your friend. you are growing old. will you not find, perhaps, more happiness in your old age, if you bring a little youth into this melancholy old house--" "i must ask you to withhold your kind wishes until some other time," interrupted madame, dryly. "i am at present seeking your advice as a lawyer. i have not been regardless of the fact that the house of forsyth must have an heir; i have been thinking of it for a long time--in fact, that is all there is left for me to do. and, though it is exceedingly distasteful to me, i see the justice in seeking out one of--that family. but, it must be done in my way. my mind is quite made up to that. you say there is a--child. i wish you to communicate with this child's father--this relative of my husband, and inform him that i will make this child my heir provided he can be brought to gray manor at once. he will live for one year here under your guardianship. i will send for percival tubbs who, you may remember, tutored my grandson. doubtless he is old-fogyish but from his long association with our family he knows the forsyth traditions and what the head of the house of forsyth should be. he will know whether this boy can be trained to measure up to it. if, after a year, he does not, he must go back--to his father. i will be fair, of course, as far as money goes. if he does--" she stopped suddenly, her stony demeanor broken. the thin lips quivered at the thought of that sunny south room in the great house where had been left untouched the toys, the books, the games, the precious trophies, the guns and racquets, golf sticks and gloves which marked each development of her beloved grandson. "a very fair plan," murmured the lawyer. "you have not heard all," went on madame forsyth in such a strange voice that cornelius allendyce looked up at her in astonishment. "i am going away." "you! where?" exclaimed the man. he could not quite believe his ears. "that i do not care to divulge." she enjoyed his amazement. "i am yielding to a restlessness which in a younger woman you would understand, but which in me you would no doubt term--crazy. i am going to run away--to some new place, where, for awhile, no one will know whether i am the rich madame christopher forsyth or the poor mrs. john smith. oh, i shall be quite safe; at my bank they will be able to find me if anything happens. norris has had entire charge of the mills for a long time. and budge and harkness can take care of things here." "madame," the lawyer was moved out of his customary reserve, "are you not possibly running away from what may bring you happiness--and comfort?" for the space of a moment the real heart of the woman shone in her eyes. "i _am_ running away. i might learn to love this boy and he might not be what the head of the house of forsyth _should_ be and i would have to send him back. and my heart has been torn enough. it is tired. i have a whim to find new places--new things--to rest--and forget all this." there was an interval of silence. then mr. allendyce, lifting his eyes from the patent-leather tips of his shoes, said quietly: "i will carry out your commands to the best of my ability." there followed, then, a great deal of discussion over details. and, while carefully jotting figures and memoranda in a neat, morocco bound note-book, the little man of law felt as though he were writing the opening chapters of some fairy-tale. yet there was little of the fairy-tale in the old, empty house, a melancholy house in spite of its wealth of treasure, brought from every country on the globe. and there was nothing of romance in the forsyth family which had come over to connecticut from england in the early days of its settlement and had left to all the forsyths to come, not only the beginnings of the forsyth factory where thread was made by the millions of spools, and the forsyth fortune, amassed by those same spools, but also a deal of that courage which had helped those pioneers endure the hardships and meet the obstacles of the early days. her business at an end, madame expressed embarrassment at her inhospitality in denying mr. allendyce his cup of tea. would he not stay and dine with her? mr. allendyce did not in the least desire to dine alone with his client but the wassumsic inn was an uninviting place and new york was a three hours' ride away. so he accepted with a polite show of pleasure and assured madame that he could amuse himself in the library while she dressed for dinner. left to himself, the lawyer fell to pacing the velvety length of the library floor. this led him to one of the long windows. he stopped and looked out through it across the sloping lawns which surrounded the house. a low ribbon of glow hung over the edge of the hills which lay to the west of the town. silhouetted against it was the ragged line of roofs and stacks which were the forsyth mills. familiar with them through years of business association, the little man of law visualized them now as clearly as though they did not lay wrapped in evening shadow; he saw the ugly, age-old walls, the glaring brick of the new additions, the dingy yards, the silver thread of the river and across that the rows upon rows of tiny houses piled against one another, each like its neighbor even to the broken pickets surrounding squares of cinder ground. he knew, although his eyes could not see, that these yards even now were hung with the lines of everlasting washing, that men lounged on those back doorsteps and smoked and talked while women worked within preparing the evening meals. these human beings were machines in the gigantic industry upon which the house of forsyth was founded. did madame ever think of them as flesh and blood mortals--like herself? cornelius allendyce smiled at the question; oh, no, the forsyth tradition, of which madame talked, built an impenetrable wall between her and those toilers. staring at the gray hard line of shadow that was the tallest of the chimneys the man thought how like it was to madame and old christopher forsyth. his long connection with the family and the family interests gave the lawyer an intimate understanding of them and all that had happened to them. and it had been much. mr. allendyce himself often spoke of the "curse" of gray manor. christopher forsyth and madame had had one son, christopher junior. allendyce could recall the elaborate festivities that had marked the boy's coming of age, the almost royal pomp of his wedding. three years after that wedding the young man and his wife had been drowned while cruising with friends off the coast of southern california. this terrible blow might have crushed old christopher but for the toddling youngster who was christopher the third. the grandfather and grandmother shut themselves away in gray manor with the one purpose in life--to bring up christopher the third to take his place at the head of the house of forsyth. at this point in his reflections mr. allendyce's heart gave a quick throb of pity--he knew what that handsome lad had been to the old couple. he thought now how merciful it had been that old christopher had died before that cruel accident on the football field in which the lad had been fatally injured. the brunt of the blow had fallen upon madame. and after the boy's death, a gloom had settled over her and the old house which nothing had seemed able to dispel. as a last desperate resort the lawyer had suggested, with a courage that cost considerable effort, the finding of this other heir. mr. allendyce had known very little of that "other branch" of the family. old christopher had had a younger half-brother, charles, who, at the time christopher took over the responsibilities of the head of the family, went off to south america where he married a young spanish girl. and from the moment of that "low" marriage, as old christopher had called it, to the investigation by mr. allendyce's agents, nothing had been heard at gray manor of this charles forsyth. it had cost considerable money to trace him down but, accomplished, mr. allendyce had with satisfaction tabulated the results in his neat little note-book. charles had died leaving one son, james. james had one child, gordon. they lived at patchin place, new york city. the thought of the fairy story flashed back into the lawyer's mind. he knew his new york and he knew patchin place, where poverty and ambition elbowed one another, and squalor stabbed at the heart of beauty. this gordon forsyth had his childhood amid this, lived on the rise and fall of an artist's day-by-day fortune. now he would be taken from all that, brought to gray manor, put under special tutorage, so that, some day he could step into that other lad's place. if that didn't equal an arabian night's tale! "i'll go down to patchin place myself. i'd like to see their faces when i tell them!" he declared aloud, with a tingle within his heart that was a thrill although the little man did not know it. harkness coughed behind him. he turned quickly. harkness bowed stiffly. "madame awaits you in the drawing-room." the little man-of-the-law's chin went out. "madame awaits--" poor old madame; she would not have known how to come in and say "let us go out to dinner." there had to be all the ceremony and fuss--or it would not have been gray manor and madame christopher forsyth. "all right. i'll find her," mr. allendyce growled. then he was startled out of his usual composure by catching the suggestion of a twinkle in the harkness eye which, of course, should not be in a forsyth butler's eye at all. chapter iv red-robin for twenty-five years cornelius allendyce had worn nothing but black ties. on the morning of his contemplated invasion of patchin place in search of a forsyth heir he knotted a lavender scarf about his neck and felt oddly excited. such a sudden and unexplainable impulse, he thought, must portend adventure. with a notion that all artists were "at home" at tea time, mr. allendyce waited until four o'clock before he approached his agreeable task. at the door of patchin place he dismissed his taxicab and stood for a moment surveying the dilapidated front of the building--with a moment's mental picture of the magnificent pile that was gray manor. a pretentious though slightly soiled register just inside the doorway, told him that "james forsyth" lived on the fifth floor, so the little man toiled resolutely up the narrow, steep stairway, puffing as he ascended. it was necessary to count the landings to know, in the dimness of the hallway, when he reached the fifth floor. he had to pause outside the door to catch his breath; a moment's nausea seized him at the smell of stale food and damp walls. but at his knock the door swung back upon so much sunshine and color that the little man blinked in amazement. a mite of a girl with a halo of sun-red hair smiled at him in a very friendly fashion. "does mr. james forsyth live here?" it seemed almost ridiculous to ask the question for surely it must be some witch's cranny upon which he had stumbled. "yes. but jimmie isn't home. won't you come in?" mr. allendyce stared about the room--a big room, its size enhanced by the great glass windows and the glass skylight. everywhere bloomed flowers in gayly painted boxes and pots and tubs. and after another blink mr. allendyce perceived that there were a few real chairs, very shabby, and a table covered with a cloth woven in brilliant colors and some very lovely pictures hanging wherever, because of the windows and the sloping roof, there was any place to hang them. the young girl closed the door, whereupon there came a gay chirping from birds perching, the bewildered lawyer discovered, in various places around the room quite as though this corner of a tenement was a woodland. "hush, bo, hush. they're dreadfully noisy. they love company. won't you sit down?" mr. allendyce sat gingerly upon the nearest chair. his companion pulled one up close to him. he perceived with something of a shock that she limped and at this discovery he looked at her again and drew in a quick breath. why, here was the oddest little thing he had ever seen. he had thought her a child, yet the wide eyes, set deep and of the blue of midnight, had a quaint seriousness and understanding; in the corner of her lips lingered a tender droop oddly at variance with the childish dimple of the finely moulded chin. though the girl's red hair--like flame, as the lawyer had first thought, gave her an alive look, the little form under the queer straight dress was diminutive to frailty. "who are you, my dear?" "robin forsyth. jimmie calls me red-robin because i hop when i walk." "is jimmie your--" "he's my parent. do you know jimmie?" "n-no, not--exactly." the little man was wondering how his investigators had failed to report this young girl. "jimmie ought to be here soon. he went out to sell a picture to old mrs. wycke. she wanted it but she wanted it cheap, jimmie says. but we didn't have anything to eat today so he took the picture to her and he's going to bring back some cake and ice cream. we'll have a party. will you stay?" "good heavens," thought allendyce, startled at her astonishing frankness. he reached out and patted the small hand. "you are very kind. does your jimmie sell--many pictures?" "not many--i heard him and mr. tony talking. mr. tony's his best friend. if it were not for me jimmie'd go away with mr. tony. mr. tony writes, you see, and he wants jimmie to illustrate for him." "and where is your brother gordon?" robin stared. "my--brother--gordon?" "yes. gordon--" "_i_ am gordon." "you!" "my real name is gordon but jimmie doesn't like it. he always said it was too formal for a little girl. so he calls me red-robin and he says he'll never call me anything else. why do you look so funny?" for mr. allendyce seemed to have crumpled together and to be quite speechless. "don't _you_ think i'm too, oh, sort of insignificant, to be gordon? i like robin much better." the lawyer did not hear her. here was a fine balking of all his and madame's plans. the forsyth heir! that that heir should be a girl had never entered their calculations. and a little lame girl at that; mr. allendyce suddenly recalled how madame had worshipped the splendid manliness of young christopher the third. "is there anything the matter with you, mr.--why, you haven't told me your name!" with a tremendous effort cornelius allendyce pulled himself together. he flushed under the wondering wide-eyed scrutiny of his companion, who reached out and laid a small, warm hand upon his. "you're not ill, are you?" with solicitude. "no--no, my dear. no, i am not ill. but i am upset. you see--i came here--well, i call it--a most interesting story. up in connecticut there's a small town and a very big mill which has been there for ever so long, heaping up millions of dollars. and there's a very big house there that looks like a castle because it's built of gray stone and is up on a hill--it has everything but the moat itself. and an old lady lives there all alone." the lawyer paused, a little frightened at a wild thought that was persistently creeping up over his sensibilities. it must be the lavender tie or the witchery of the flowers and the absurd chirping birds. "oh, that's the old dragon!" cried robin, delightedly, with a chuckle as though she knew all about the old lady and the lonely castle. "that's what jimmie calls her--poor old thing. jimmie says she must be dreadfully unhappy in that lonely old house after all that's happened there." "do you--do you mean that--you _know_--" "about those rich forsyth's? why, of course. that's jimmie's pet story--about his terrible relatives." "but your father has never--" "seen her? oh, no. jimmie's very proud, you see. and he thinks one good picture is worth more than any old fortune or mill or anything. oh, jimmie's wonderful. why, we wouldn't trade our little home here for two of her castles! jimmie couldn't paint if he were rich. he says money kills genius. only--" she stopped abruptly, flushing. "only what, my dear--" "i ought not to rattle on like this to you. jimmie says i am--sometimes--_too_ friendly. i suppose it's because i don't know many people. but i wish i just had a _little_ money. you see _i'm_ not a bit of a genius. i can't paint like jimmie or sing like my mother did--or do a single thing." now mr. allendyce suddenly felt so excited that he wriggled on the rickety chair until it creaked threateningly. "if you had money, miss gordon--what would you do?" "why i'd run away." she answered with startling promptness. "oh, i don't mean that i'm not happy here. i love it. and i adore jimmie. but i'm a girl and i'm lame, so i'm a--a millstone 'round jimmie's neck!" "what in the world--" "_promise_ you won't ever tell him what i'm saying. oh, he'd feel dreadfully. you see it's just that. he feels sorry 'cause i'm lame and he won't believe that i don't mind a bit--why, i can run and do everything--and he won't ever go anywhere without me. and an artist shouldn't have to be tied down; i heard mr. tony say so, once, when jimmie was very blue. he didn't know i heard. now mr. tony's going off for a long cruise in the south seas on a sailing boat and he wants jimmie to go with him. he's going to write stories and he says if jimmie sees it all he will make his fortune painting pictures. and he can illustrate the stories, too. and jimmie won't go because he won't leave me. don't you see what i'd do if i had some money? i'd run away somewhere and tell jimmie that he must go with mr. tony." mr. allendyce sprang to his feet and paced up and down the room. in all his life the world had never seemed so full of youth and color and adventure as it did at that precise moment; his cautious soul fairly burst with imaginative daring. "miss gordon--that's what i came for. i mean, i came to tell this gordon forsyth that the old lady, madame forsyth, wanted him to come to gray manor to live--for a year. he's to be tutored there. and if at the end of a year he is a--" "but there isn't any he! gordon's me." "i know. i know. but a forsyth's a forsyth." "you mean--_i_ might go to--the castle--" "yes, why not? madame--and i--just took it for granted that you were a boy, because of your name. but our mistake does not make you any less a forsyth or less a possible heir--" the thought was a full-fledged idea now! "who _are_ you?" broke in robin, excitedly. "i am cornelius allendyce, attorney for the forsyth family. and i am--if your father consents--your future guardian." "oh, jimmie'll _never_ consent, never!" "why not?" pressed the lawyer. "you say you have no--particular genius to be killed by--money." "would it mean that i'd have to give jimmie up forever?" "no, my dear. indeed no. madame's plan is that you are to go to gray manor under my guardianship to live for a year. at the end of that time, if she is satisfied--why, your father would simply give up any claim--" "oh, you don't know jimmie. he'd never do it, unless--" she paused, her eyes suddenly wet, "unless--_i_--gave _him_ up. all his life he's made sacrifices and given up things for me--big chances. so now--couldn't i run away with you--and then write and tell him?" the cornelius allendyce who had lived up to that moment of crossing the threshold of this fifth-floor witchery would have scorned such a suggestion as "ridiculous! ridiculous!" but the cornelius allendyce of the lavender tie saw mad possibilities in such a step. take the girl to gray manor and settle with mr. james forsyth afterwards. [illustration: "couldn't i run away with you?"] "couldn't i?" "why--yes, if you think your father would accept the situation--when he knew." "oh, i'd tell him he _had_ to, that he must go away with mr. tony. and he'd go. but, mr. allendyce--i couldn't go tonight. i just couldn't let jimmie come back with the ice cream and cake and maybe a pumpkin pie and--not find me here. our parties are such fun. if you'll come tomorrow at three o'clock--i'll be ready. but what will the dragon say when she sees that i'm a girl?" mr. allendyce suddenly laughed aloud. the whole thing was so very simple. madame only waited a telegram from him to set forth upon her travels. why let her know that gordon was a girl until the year had passed? "we will not worry about that, my dear. madame is going away. she will not be back at gray manor for a long time. i will call at three--tomorrow. i trust you will make your jimmie understand. you know this is a very unusual step--there are some who might call it abduction--" "oh, jimmie wouldn't!" assured robin. "not when i tell him why i'm running away." robin had answered him so indifferently that cornelius allendyce felt her mind was working out a plan for the morrow. he gave a last look about the room as though he wished to carry away a perfect impression of it, then patted the girl on the shoulder. "here is my card and the telephone number of my office. if you decide that this step is--too irregular, if perhaps we ought to talk with your father first--" "no! no!" cried robin. "that would spoil everything!" down in the street cornelius allendyce waved off a persistent taxi driver, deciding that he needed the vent of exercise to bring him back to earth. and as he hurried along he felt a curious elation, as though for the first time he enjoyed a zest in living. as a lawyer his life had been necessarily cut-and-dried; there had been little room for adventuring. and now, in a brief half-hour, he had let himself into the wildest sort of conspiracy. (he stopped suddenly and mopped his forehead.) he was planning to deliberately deceive madame forsyth, to steal a young and very unusual girl from her parent--and, to assume the guardianship of this same runaway. where would it all end? but in that half-hour just past something must have happened to the little man's conscience for even after the startling summing up, he laughed and walked on with a step lighter than before. * * * * * back on the fifth floor of the old house in patchin place robin leaned over the table writing a letter. her task was made the more difficult because of the tears which blinded her eyes. "jimmie, i love you more than anything in the world but i am going to run away and leave you. i am going to the dragon. she wants an heir. i am going to live in the castle and have a tutor. and my guardian is going to be the dragon's lawyer--he's ever so nice and fathery--so you see i will be looked after as well as can be. jimmie dearest-darling, you must not worry about me or try to make me come back for i'll be all right and you must go away with mr. tony and paint lots and i'll be so proud. and please, please jimmie, make aunt milly promise to take care of the birds and the flowers for they mustn't die. and you will write to me, won't you? good-bye, jimmie, don't forget your hot milk at night. yours always and always, red-robin." she had just signed the letter when james forsyth opened the door. she thrust it into her pocket as she turned to meet him. "oh, _jimmie_!" she cried, for under his arm he carried the picture he had taken to sell to mrs. wycke. "she didn't want it," he explained, testily. the girl had been well schooled in disappointment; not the slightest shadow now crossed her face. "_someone_ will, jimmie," she declared, brightly, taking the heavy package from him. "and you said yourself mrs. wycke couldn't tell a chromo from a masterpiece. we don't want her to have our picture anyway. i'm not a bit hungry--are you, jimmie? let's sit here all cosy and you read to me--" and thinking of the note that lay in her pocket, she reached up very suddenly and kissed her jimmie to hide the break in her voice. chapter v jimmie robin found running away amazingly simple. poor jimmie, at her urging, went out quite unsuspecting. she was so excited and there was so much to be done at the last moment, that she had no time to think what the parting with all she loved so dearly must mean to her. promptly at three o'clock cornelius allendyce tapped on the door. his face was very red and moist and his hand, as he reached out for robin's bag, shook, but robin did not notice all that; she slipped quickly through the door and shut it behind her, as though fearful that at the last moment she might find it impossible to go. out in the thin sunshine, whirring through the traffic of the crowded streets, neither spoke for breathlessness. cornelius allendyce stared at the buildings and swallowed at regular intervals to steady his nerves--a trick he had always found most helpful in important legal trials. robin kept her eyes glued on the back of the taxi driver's head but he might have had two heads and one upside down for all she noticed. her hands in her lap were clenched very tight and her lips were pressed in a straight, thin, resolute line. but as they kept on past forty-second street and headed toward central park west the lawyer explained that he was taking her to his own home for the night. "my sister will make you quite comfortable. tomorrow we will go out to wassumsic." he did not say that it was important, too, to give madame forsyth ample opportunity to get away from gray manor. robin drew a long breath and relaxed. it had taken so very much courage to run away that she had little left with which to face her new life. tomorrow it might be easier. miss effie allendyce took her under her wing in a fluttery, mothery sort of a way with a great many "my dear's." "i suppose," the lawyer had said, looking at the two, "you, effie, will have to get miss forsyth some clothes tomorrow--" "clothes," robin cried, astonished. "i--brought some." "well, you probably ought to have some other kind. you see, my dear, you are a forsyth of gray manor now." he turned to his sister. "effie, can you get all she needs--everything, before tomorrow at three o'clock?" effie's eyes danced at such a task--indeed, she could. she knew a shop where she could buy everything that a girl might need. "well, i'll leave you two to make out lists. isn't that what you have to do?" so, for a few hours the making of these amazing lists kept robin's thoughts from that little fifth floor home and jimmie. miss effie began with shoes and finished with hats, with little abbreviations in brackets to include caps and scarfs and all sorts of things. "it is very cold in wassumsic," she explained, "and you will live a great deal out of doors. it is very lovely," she added, making a round period after "sweater." and there was another list which included a wrist watch and a writing set. "they can send on most of these things," she pondered. robin slyly pinched herself to know that she was still a living-breathing girl; all seemed as unreal as though she had slipped away into a magician's world. but the lists completed, dinner over, alone with her new guardian, an overwhelming loneliness swept her. cornelius allendyce, turning from a protracted study of the blazing fire, was startled to find the girl's head pillowed in her arm, her shoulders shaking with smothered sobs. "my dear! my dear!" he exclaimed, very much as miss effie would have done. "i--i can't help it. i tried--" poor robin looked so very small in the big chair that remorse seized cornelius allendyce. how could he have taken this little girl from her corner, shabby as it was? it was not too late-- "miss gordon," he began a little uneasily, wondering what guardians did when their wards were hysterical. "my dear, don't cry, i beg of you. come, it is not too late to go back. we will explain--" robin lifted her head. "i--i don't want to go back. but i was thinking of jimmie. he must be awfully lonesome--now. you see you don't know jimmie. he depends on me to remind him of things like his hot milk. and just at first, it will be hard. but, no, no, i don't want to go back." "then i would suggest that you go to bed. you are doubtless very tired from the excitement of everything. and tomorrow will be a busy day--and an interesting day." robin drew herself slowly from the chair. she limped over to the divan upon which cornelius allendyce sat. her eyes were very steady, dark with earnestness. "i'm ashamed i cried. i won't do it again. but i want you to know, oh, you must know, that i'm not going to gray manor because of all those clothes and the money or anything like that. there could not be anything at gray manor as nice as jimmie's and my bird-cage. but i want jimmie to have his chance--" left alone, cornelius allendyce found himself haunted by robin's "jimmie must be awfully lonesome." what a strange pair--the quaint old-young girl living in a world which circled around this father--the father, by the girl's own assertion, "depending" upon the girl. and little robin, scarcely more than a child, realizing that she hindered the man's development, talking about giving him "his chance" and at such cost--and promising that she would not cry again. "there's bravery for you!" muttered the lawyer aloud. he believed that miss effie's lists of finery and knick-knacks held little attraction for the girl. he recalled madame forsyth's scornful "that other branch of the family." yet this james forsyth and gordon had lived for years and often in want in new york city, and had never approached madame for as much as a penny. robin had said jimmie couldn't paint if he were rich. could he paint if he lost her? suddenly cornelius allendyce had a vivid understanding of the tie that bound these two. and it was unthinkable that this man would let the girl go and do nothing. yet it was not of any possible embarrassment _he_ might suffer that cornelius allendyce thought at this moment; it was of the heartbreak of the father. he had not considered him at all; carried away by a mad impulse he had let himself listen to a child and had lost his own sense of justice. why, it had been rank robbery! he must go to this man at once. muttering to himself he went in search of his hat and coat. * * * * * for the third time the little lawyer climbed the flights of stairs at patchin place. and this time, so eager was he to square himself with robin's jimmie, he ran up the steps. he knocked twice and when no one answered he opened the door quietly and walked in. a man sat at the little table, his head dropped in his outflung arms. cornelius allendyce knew it was jimmie. another man stood over him, his face flushed with impatience. "mr. tony," thought the lawyer. he was evidently just drawing breath after a heated argument. "pardon my intrusion, gentlemen. i knocked but i do not think you heard me." allendyce stopped short, for his usual measured words seemed out of place at this moment. "i am cornelius allendyce," he finished humbly and guiltily. "i came back to--explain." james forsyth made a lightning-quick movement as though he would spring at the little lawyer's throat. mr. tony held him back. "jimmie--wait. let him talk." "it was miss robin's wish to slip away without telling you. she said you would not let her go and she had quite made up her mind to give you--what she calls--your chance. she has an idea that she ties you down--" jimmie choked as a sob strangled in his throat. his anger suddenly melted to abjection. mr. tony laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and turned to the lawyer. "the girl is right. she's a wonderful little thing. she always could see further ahead than her dad. i have been telling my pal that this is the best thing all around that could happen--a fine bit of luck for everyone. robin will go up to gray manor and be as happy and safe as can be and her father can travel and work--the way robin wants him to. robin took rather unusual means to gain her end but--well, she knew what she was doing." jimmie turned to cornelius allendyce and studied his face with a desperate keenness. "she isn't like other children," he began slowly. "poor little crooked kiddie. she's sensitive. i've kept her away from everything that could hurt her. i've tried--to make up to her. i thought she was happy; i did not know she guessed--or knew--" mr. tony had taken a few steps down the room. he wheeled now and came back with a set expression on his face as though he had to say something disagreeable and must get it over with. "jimmie, suppose, just for once, you look your soul straight in the eye--honest. now isn't it the artist heart of you that's hurt by robin's crooked little body--and not the child? don't you keep her shut up in here because, when people stare at her--_you_ suffer? have you been fair to her? oh, yes--you love her, all right. well, then, let her go. robin thinks she's giving you your chance--well, _i_ say, give the girl her own." "i tell you robin's different--she doesn't want money or clothes!" "well, pretty things--and good food--can make even a 'different' girl's heart lighter. come, old man, go off with me on this cruise and work your head off and at the end of the year--if robin's not happy there, well, you can make other plans. i'm like robin, i believe that give you a year, you'll do something rather big." james forsyth suddenly lifted a face so boyishly helpless, so defeated, that allendyce's heart went out to him. he understood, all at once, what little robin had meant when she had said, "you don't know jimmie!" he certainly was not like other men. "i feel such a--quitter. i promised robin's mother--i'd make up to the child for her being lame--the way _she_ would have, if she'd lived. and i've failed. why, only last night she went to bed hungry." there followed a moment of tense silence, then the man went on dully, in a tone that implied yielding. "i suppose i may know all the circumstances that led up to--this." cornelius allendyce proceeded to tell everything from the day of his interview with madame to the moment of his consternation upon discovering that gordon forsyth was a girl and not a boy. he repeated word for word robin's and his conspiring; he described their flight and robin's break down in his library. "she had not lost courage--oh, no. but she was thinking of you. she was afraid you'd forget to take your hot milk at night or something like that," he finished simply. there were other details for the lawyer to explain to james forsyth, having to do with allowances and schooling. then, when everything had been said that was necessary to be said, james forsyth rose wearily. "if that's all, i'd like it if you two would leave me here--alone." he held out his hand to mr. allendyce. "understand, if she's not happy--" "our agreement ends." chapter vi the forsyth heir harkness' mother had once lived in an english duke's family and harkness had been brought up on stories of the ceremonious life there. therefore he considered it quite fitting that he should take upon himself the planning for the reception of the forsyth heir. "i say it do be a pity madame could not 'ave waited," he grumbled to mrs. budge. "to 'ave the poor little fellow arrive here alone don't seem right. but madame says 'harkness, you'll do everything--'" "everything!" snorted mrs. budge, who had just come down from dusting the "boy's" room. the familiar "clutter," as she had always called it, had roused poignant memories, so that her wrinkled face was streaked now and red. "'pears to me most you do is talk--and talk big. it's harkness this and harkness that! to be sure _my_ mother was a plain new england woman--" "now, budge, now, budge," interrupted harkness, consolingly. "no one as i know is going to dispute that your mother was a plain new england woman. and we're not going to quarrel at such a rememberable moment, not we. and we're going to give mr. gordon a welcome as is befitting a forsyth. at the appointed hour we'll gather at the door--you must stand at the head of the long line of servants--" "long line of servants! and where do you expect to get them, i'd like to know? things have been at sixes and sevens in this house ever since the gloom came. and that new piece from the village ain't worth her salt's far as work goes." poor harkness had to recognize the truth of what budge said. since the "gloom" things _had_ been going at sixes and sevens--inexperienced help called up from the village to fill any need. he was not to be daunted, however; there were the gardener and the undergardener and the chauffeur and the stableman and they had wives who might be induced to put on their sunday clothes and join in the ceremonial--all in all, they could make a fair showing. into the plans for the dinner mrs. budge threw herself with her whole heart. there must be young turkey and cranberry sauce, and a tasty salad and a good old new england pumpkin pie, which she would make herself, and ice cream and little cakes with colored frosting--oh, budge knew what a boy liked. and harkness would brighten the great dark hall with bitter-sweet and deck the gloomy rooms with flowers--he knew what was proper for the coming of the heir of the house of forsyth. "like as not," budge said, "'twill be the end to this curse." so the two old retainers, their hearts full of hope for a new happiness over gray manor, labored until the old house shone and bloomed for the coming of gordon forsyth. and a few minutes before the hour of arrival, the gardener and the undergardener and the stableman and their wives came in, breathless with importance; chloe, the old colored cook, appeared in a brand new turban and 'kerchief. mrs. budge, her gray hair brushed back tighter than ever, donned her black silk which she had not worn since young christopher's eighteenth birthday and took her place at the head of the line just a foot or two behind harkness who, of course, had the honor of opening the door. mrs. budge, however, watched the service door at the end of the long hall with fretful eyes. "that piece," she confided to harkness, the moment not being so important as to still her grumbling, "said she wouldn't come in. and when i told her she could just choose t'wixt this and the door she said she wouldn't dress up, anyways. impertinent chit! thinks she's too good for the place. things _have_ gone to sixes and sevens--" harkness was holding his watch in his hand. and just as he shut it with a significant click, a tall dark-haired girl in a plain gingham dress slipped into the room and took her place at the end of the line, at the same moment casting a defiant glance at the knot which adorned the back of mrs. budge's head. above the low murmur of voices came the throb of a motor. "it's him!" cried harkness, a catch in his voice. mrs. budge shut her eyes tight from sheer nervousness. there was a visible straightening and a rustling of the line. then harkness threw the door open and bent low. on the threshold stood a small girl; her eyes, under the fringe of red hair, wide with excitement, frightened. harkness had opened his lips for his little speech of welcome but the first sound died with a cackle in his throat, leaving his mouth agape. he stared at the little creature and beyond her at cornelius allendyce, who was superintending the unloading of several bags and boxes. where was gordon forsyth? turning, mr. allendyce, at one glance, took in the situation. he bustled up the steps, and thrust a bag in harkness' limp hand. "well, we're here!" he cried cheerily, ignoring the amazement and disappointment that fairly tingled in the air. "and a fine welcome you're giving us!" he turned to robin, who stood rooted to the threshold. "my dear, these people have served the forsyths faithfully and for a long time. harkness, this is gordon forsyth. mrs. budge--" he drew aside to let robin enter. and robin, conscious of startled, curious eyes upon her, limped into her new home. harkness, because he had to do something, closed the door slowly behind her. "i'm sure--we were expecting--" he mumbled. mr. allendyce imperiously waved off whatever harkness was expecting. "we hope, mrs. budge, you are prepared for two hungry people. we lunched very early and the ride here is always tiresome. in madame's absence, i am sure you will take care of miss gordon and--me." there was the finest inflection on the "miss." "i shall stay a day or two. robin, my dear, this is your new home." robin had been biting her lips to keep them steady. there was something so terrible in the great hall, the broad stair that lost itself in a cavern of darkness above, the brilliant lights, the staring faces. her eyes swept from mrs. budge's stony face down the line and crossed the curious glance of the dark-haired girl in the gingham dress. robin's brightened, for the girl was young, but the girl flushed a dark red, tossed her head and stalked through the narrow service door out of the room. robin turned to cornelius allendyce and clung to his arm. he seemed the one nice friendly thing in the whole place. and, as though he knew how she felt, he patted her hand in a way that seemed to say, "courage, my dear." mrs. budge recovered her tongue. "she'll not be wanting the young _master's_ room," she said crisply. "madame's orders--" "i would suggest that miss gordon decide for herself what room she will have." the lawyer's voice carried a rebuke that was not lost upon the housekeeper. "harkness, carry the bags upstairs and miss gordon and i will follow." so harkness' reception line broke up; the gardener and the undergardener and their wives following mrs. budge's stiff back out through the service door while harkness led robin and her new guardian up the broad stairway. in the kitchen, for very want of strength, mrs. budge flopped into a chair. "sixes and sevens!" she gasped. "i'll say that things _are_ just going to sixes and sevens. i've always distrusted all lawyer-men and this one ain't a bit different. bringing a _girl_ here, and a cripple. did you ever hear the like?" she looked from one to the other of harkness' retainers and answered herself with the same breath. "you never did. don't know when i've been so flabbergasted. mebbe she's a forsyth but she ain't a worth-while forsyth. she ain't. as if a girl could step into our boy's shoes." she sniffed audibly. "she don't take in hannah budge." when harkness appeared there was a fresh outburst and a reiteration that hannah budge "wasn't going to be taken in by a piece no bigger'n a pint of cider." "well, the girl's here--and hungry," harkness retorted with meaning abruptness. a sense of duty never failed to spur poor budge. she rose, now, quickly. "humph, like as not with everything else going to sixes and sevens that old chloe's forgot her turkey," and with a heavy sigh that fairly rattled the stiff silk on her bosom she went off in search of the cook. robin found much difficulty in choosing her room for they all seemed equally lovely in the perfection of their furnishings. she had stood for a moment in the door of the south room that had been christopher the third's. "here's where they'd have put you if you were a boy," her new guardian had told her. in spite of mrs. budge's efforts at cleaning and dusting, a melancholy hung over the room and about all the boyish things there was such a sense of waiting that robin was glad to turn away. finally she decided upon a west room the windows of which overlooked the valley and the hills beyond. "oh, wouldn't jimmie love that?" she had cried, lingering in one of the windows. "he loves hills, and doesn't that river look like a silver ribbon tying the brown fields?" the bedroom opened on one side into a sitting room with a bay window, on the other into a tiny bathroom, shining and gleaming with nickel and tile. "oh, everything's _lovely_," and robin ecstatically clasped her hands. "only what'll i ever do with everything so big!" cornelius allendyce laughed at her dismay. to be sure he had not spent his life in such tiny quarters as the bird cage and he could not understand the girl's state of mind. "my dear, after a little everything will seem quite natural. and remember--everything is at your command. this is your home. you are gordon forsyth. you will not have time to be lonely." robin's serious face suddenly broke into a bright smile. she patted the garland of roses which held back the silk hangings. "i just had the funniest feeling, as if i were not me at all but all of a sudden someone else. ever since i was a very little girl i've often played that i lived a make-believe story--i make it like all the fairy stories jumbled together. and i fit all the people i know into the different characters. jimmie lets me play it because i am alone so much and it keeps me happy. sometimes he even plays it with me. it makes horrid things seem nice. and jimmie never wanted me to know the boys and girls at school--because i'm lame, i guess--so i always pretended things about them and gave them names. you should have seen bluebeard." she laughed at the recollection. "and now i'm going on playing. i'm the little beggar-maid who awakens to find her self in the castle. do you suppose there's a fairy godmother somewhere? and--a prince?" and cornelius allendyce who had never read a fairy story in his life, let alone acted one, laughed with her. "yes, this is another chapter in your story." "oh, and don't you wish we could just peek to the end and see how it all turns out? but that isn't fair. and we couldn't--anyway." her new guardian shook his head. "no, we couldn't--anyway." chapter vii beryl a bell tinkling somewhere in the house wakened robin the next morning. through the flowered chintz curtains of her window the sun shone with a warmth out of all keeping with the time of the year, throwing such a joyous glow about everything in the room that she rubbed her eyes to be sure she was not dreaming. the evening before, everything had seemed so strange that robin had not been able to take in small things; now an immense curiosity to explore gray manor, and the grounds that were like central park, and the little town, and the hills around it, seized her. she slipped her feet out of bed and into the satin slippers which had been one of miss effie's purchases. she dressed with feverish haste, rebuking herself for having slept so late, for her new wrist watch told her it was after ten o'clock. ten o'clock--why, on patchin place the morning was almost over at that hour, the streets about thundering with the work of the day. and here it was as still as night, or as--a church on a weekday, robin thought. dressed, she opened the door of her room very quietly and peeped curiously out. and there in the wide hall, dusting an old highboy, was the girl with the dark hair. "hullo!" exclaimed robin, delighted at the encounter. the girl stared for a moment. she was tall and thin; her eyes so intensely blue as to look black and startling in their contrast to the whiteness of her skin. they were brooding, smoldering eyes and a too frequent scowl was making tiny lines between the straight black eyebrows. "isn't this the wonderfulest morning?" robin advanced, stepping nearer. "what is your name? i'm robin--i mean gordon forsyth." "i know that. my name's beryl but i guess it doesn't make much difference to you what i'm called. the man who came with you's waiting downstairs." in spite of this rebuff robin lingered for a moment, hopeful of a pleasanter word. but the girl beryl shouldered her duster and marched off, head high. "i'm going to find out more about her right off," determined robin as she went in search of her guardian. the big rooms below, like her own room, looked very different in the morning light, even cheery. mr. allendyce greeted her with a smile and harkness' "good-morning, miss gordon," had pleasant warmth. it was fun to sit in the high-backed chair before the shining silver and the flowers and to choose between grapefruit and frosted orange juice. so fascinated was robin that she forgot for the time, her interest in the girl she had encountered upstairs. "well, what do you think of gray manor in daylight?" asked mr. allendyce as the two walked into the library. "oh, it's more like a great castle than ever. but it isn't--half as bad as i thought it was." when robin caught the amused twinkle in her guardian's eye she added hastily: "i mean, it isn't gloomy and sad at all. it's so beautiful--and i love beautiful things." mr. allendyce thought suddenly that it was the first time for a long time _he_ had seen these rooms when they had not seemed overhung with melancholy. but he checked any expression of the thought; instead he took robin on a tour through the library and drawing rooms, pointing out to her the treasures which had been brought from every corner of the world. there were rare tapestries and bronzes, and tiny ivory carvings and tables inlaid with bright jade and old crystal candelabra, and quaint chests and wonderful paintings and rare old books. as he told the story of each, cornelius allendyce marvelled at the girl's quick appreciation and intelligent interest. her jimmie had evidently gathered travelled people about him and robin had been always a sharp listener. then harkness interrupted their pleasant occupation by appealing to robin for "his orders" with such a comical solemnity that robin had difficulty suppressing a nervous giggle. her guardian came to her rescue with the suggestion that they drive about the town and the mills, have an early tea and an early dinner and dispense with luncheon. "must i tell him every day just what i want?" thought robin, in dismay. the girl's active imagination could well picture the imposing motor which came to the door as a coach-and-four, resplendent with regal trappings. and, cuddled in the wolf-skin robes, flying over the frosty roads which wound through the hills, it was very easy to feel like a princess from one of her own stories. only the mills spoiled her lovely day. the evening before they had loomed obscurely and interestingly but in broad daylight they were ugly. the great chimneys belched black smoke into the beautiful blue of the sky; the monotonous drone of many machines jarred the hillside quiet. everything was so dusty and dirty--even the tiny houses where the men lived. robin, brought up though she had been in patchin place, turned in disgust from the dreary ugliness about her. "does it have to be like that?" she asked her guardian. "like what?" "oh--dirty. and so dreary. and noisy." her guardian laughed. "i'm afraid it does. work is mostly always drab--like that. and you see it has grown like a giant. there--there's the giant for your fairy story, my dear. and giants are usually ugly, aren't they?" "yes, always." robin spoke with conviction. as they rode on she looked back over her shoulder. "i'm glad we can't stop today. this ride has been so lovely that i'd hate to spoil it by--seeing the giant up close." "giants are very powerful. and usually very rich." cornelius allendyce enjoyed the fancy. "yes--and they crush and kill, too." "but didn't a jack climb something or other and overcome one of them in his lair?" at this robin laughed and then forgot, for the time being, the mills and the dirty houses; when mr. allendyce hoped mrs. budge would give them a very big tea party, she realized she was hungrier than she had ever been before. so full had been each moment of her first day at gray manor that it was not until she sat curled in the big divan before the library fire, a book of colored plates of italian gardens across her lap that she thought of her determination to know more of the girl who had called herself beryl. harkness stood at the long table putting it in order. harkness seemed always moving things about just so as to put them back in place again. "mr. harkness." "yes, miss gordon." "do i know everybody here?" "why--i'm sure--what do you mean, miss gordon?" "i saw a young girl last night. and i met her in the hall today. who's she?" "that's a person from the village, miss gordon. i don't know as i've heard her name. budge mostly calls her a piece. i don't think budge is satisfied with her." "you mean she works here?" "yes, miss gordon. at least now. she helps budge. budge is getting on, you see. i don't know as i've heard the miss' name. is there anything more, miss gordon?" harkness had a warm heart under his faded livery and it went out now to robin because she looked very small and very much alone in the big room. he had heard mrs. budge's hostile sputter and he knew the lawyer man was going the next day; little miss gordon would be quite without friends at gray manor. so he stepped closer to the divan and in a very human, friendly way he added: "excuse me if i'm so bold as to say, you just count on old harkness if you want anything, missy." robin caught the kindliness in the man's voice. "oh, thank you, mr. harkness. i'll be so glad to have you for a friend. and won't you please call me robin? you see everyone who's ever liked me real well called me that and it'll make me feel homey here." "well, just between _us_, miss--robin." and the old man went off with a mysterious smile that even budge's sour face could not dispel. the house was very still. mr. allendyce was in his room writing some letters. the early dinner had been over for sometime. robin wondered what beryl was doing now and where she was--probably upstairs somewhere. "i'll go and find her!" this was more easily said than done for gray manor had wiggly wings and corridors turning in every direction and little stairs here and there so that one first went up and then down and then up again. robin had almost given up her search and had just about decided she was lost, for turn whichever way she might, nothing seemed familiar, when she heard the harsh, scraping strains of a violin, vibrant with stormy feeling. "i'll find that and then maybe it'll be someone who can tell me how to get back to the library," she thought, laughing silently at the ridiculousness of being lost in a house, anyway. she traced the music to a turning which led into a narrow hallway. at its end a door stood ajar and from it a light streamed. robin approached the door on tip toe that she might not disturb the music, then stood still on its threshold in delighted amazement for the violin player was the girl for whom she was seeking. at sight of robin the girl flung the violin upon the bed. "oh, please don't stop. may i come in? i was hunting for you." it was an absurdly small room as compared to the great rooms below, and very bare. there was one chair which beryl, scowling, pushed forward, at the same time sitting upon the bed. her eyes said plainly: "what do you want?" robin ignored her unfriendliness. she sat down on the edge of the bed, close to beryl. "i'm awfully glad i found you," she ventured. "you see you're the only other _young_ person in this house. though i never had any chums like most girls do, jimmie always seemed young and the birds and the flowers and the farri children made it--" robin stopped suddenly, for beryl was staring at her with rude amusement. "i--i thought it would be so nice if you--and i--could be--sort of chums," she managed to finish. beryl tossed her head as she moved away, shutting the violin in its case with an angry little slam. "i guess it _would_ be sort of," she mocked. "what do you mean?" poor robin's heart beat furiously; it had taken all the courage she could muster to force her advance upon this girl and beryl's rebuff hurt her deeply. she flushed at beryl's scornful laugh. "why--we're as far apart as the poles," beryl answered. "you're--gordon forsyth. and i'm just beryl lynch." robin's eyes were like a baby's in their lack of understanding. "i don't see--" she began but beryl would not let her go on. beryl's whole soul went out in resentment at what she suspected was "patronizing." "not me!" she cried in her heart. and aloud: "oh, you just _say_ you can't see. why i'm like a servant here. though i won't be that way long with that old crank as uncivil as she is. mother didn't want me to do it. but i wanted the money. and i'm going to stick it out, much as i hate it--" robin watched the other girl's stormy face in an ecstasy of delight. here was a creature different from anyone she had ever known; almost her own age, too, full of the fire and spirit and daring which she longed to possess and knew she did not; beautifully straight and tall. "i asked old budge for the place. i heard she wanted someone to help her and it was work anyone could do. mother felt dreadfully--she said i'd hate it. i don't mind the work but i hate--oh, feeling i'm not as good as anyone here. when mrs. budge told me to put on a clean uniform--ugh, how i hate those uniforms--and go down to the hall to meet you, i told her i wouldn't. she 'most sent me off then and there." "you did go, though. i saw you," robin broke in. "oh, yes, i went but i wouldn't change my dress just to spite her. and i was curious to see the boy they were all making such a fuss about. you just ought to know how upset they were when _you_ came! why, old budge talked as though it were a disgrace for a forsyth to be a girl. i was glad--because it fooled her." beryl realized suddenly that she was growing friendily confidential. she sharpened her tone. "_you'd_ better go down before the old snoop catches you here." "i wish you wouldn't talk like that," pleaded robin. "like what?" "oh, as though we weren't--well just girls alike and couldn't be friends. we might have such good times--" "you _are_ a funny little kid, aren't you? and you certainly don't know how things are run in stiff houses like this. if old budge could hear you! i don't mind telling you that the old cat keeps saying she's going to watch you to see if you act like a forsyth. so you'd better not let her hear you asking to be friends with me." robin slowly rose to her feet, two bright spots of color flaming in her cheeks. "why, i'll--" her anger died suddenly and a quaint little dignity fell upon her. she straightened her slender figure and held her head very high. "i am a forsyth and i shall act just as i think a good forsyth should and not as mrs. budge thinks. and please don't think i'm the least bit afraid of this mrs. budge." beryl laughed so gleefully at robin's defiance that robin joined in with her and the friendship for which she sought sprang into being--all because of an unspoken alliance against the hostile housekeeper. "i'll go back now--if you'll show me the way." "they _ought_ to have signs at every turning." "oh, what a funny thought!" and giggling, the two tiptoed through the winding corridors and down the stairs which led to the second floor. "i'll see you tomorrow," whispered robin at parting. "it won't do--you'll see it won't do!" warned beryl. "i haven't been in this house two whole days without knowing what it's like!" chapter viii robin asserts herself the coming of percival tubbs to gray manor added the one sweet drop to poor mrs. budge's cup of bitterness. though he brought vividly back heartbreaking memories of young chistopher the third's school days, when she had waited each day for the lad's boisterous charge upon the kitchen after the "bite" which was his and her little secret, she hoped to find in him an ally. _he_ would see how ridiculous it was to have a forsyth girl, anyway, and especially a girl who limped around the house like a scared rabbit, afraid to ask for a crumb. if this gordon had been a boy, as they had planned, another comely, happy youth, why, she could have soon learned to love him. but a girl--how would she look sitting at master christopher's desk, in his chair! something was all wrong somewhere, but percival tubbs would find out and say what's what. with this hope strong in her breast she made excuse to go into the chinese room, for the chinese room was only separated from the library by heavy curtains through which voices could be easily overheard. and harkness had said the lawyer and the tutor were talking in the library. robin's guardian had given much thought to this interview with the tutor. robin's fate worried him not a little. he had, in the few days, grown very fond of robin, and he hated to leave her with harkness and budge and this percival tubbs, a poor sort of companionship where a fifteen-year-old girl's happiness was concerned. "i must make tubbs see that the child is different--" he was thinking just as mrs. budge tiptoed into the chinese room. "miss gordon is not like other children and you'll have to plan your school work a little differently with her," he began, speaking slowly. "she's bright enough and knows much more about some things than most girls her age--and nothing at all about others. what i want you to do is to go easy; easy, that's it. i rather imagine she's always taken a lot on her own shoulders and i don't believe she's ever thought much of herself. if you can develop a little assertiveness in her--she'll need it, here--" "yes. she'll need it here," echoed the tutor, because he thought he ought to say something. he was a tall, lanky man whose shoulders sagged as though something about them had broken under the strain of being dignified; his face narrowed from an impressive dome of a forehead to a straggling van dyke beard which he always stroked with the fingers of his left hand. he was the old type of schoolmaster whom the rapid forward stride of education had left far behind. his summons to gray manor had come rather in the way of a life-saver and he did not intend to allow the fact that the forsyth heir had turned out to be a girl, perturb him in the least. and so long as his rooms at the manor were comfortable, his food good and his salary certain, he could adapt himself to any fool theory this lawyer guardian might care to advance. mr. allendyce stared hard at the other, his face wrinkled in his effort to say the right thing. "oh, let her have her head," he finished finally. and he liked that idea so well that he repeated it. "let her have her head. do you understand me? never mind what's in the old schoolbooks. if she'd rather take a walk than study latin verbs, well, let her. i want her to be happy here--happy, that's most important. you've heard of flowers that bloom only in shelter and sunshine? this youngster isn't unlike--" "well, i never! no, i _never!... i never!_" mrs. budge's gasp, rising in a crescendo, almost betrayed her presence. she gave a pillow a mighty jab. as though it were not bad enough to bring the girl to the house in the first place without paying a man a fancy price to teach her to have her own way! "flowers! humph! old fools--" unable to endure another word in silence she stalked off to her own quarters. in the butler's pantry she found beryl arranging real flowers in a squatty bristol glass bowl and humming gaily as she did so. now beryl should have beep upstairs marking the new linen and she should not be singing as though she owned the whole world. these two transgressions and the sight of the bright blossoms in the girl's hand brought the climax to the old woman's wrath. all beryl's shortcomings tumbled off her tongue in an incoherent flow of ill-temper. a stormy scene resulted which left the old housekeeper spent and beryl blazing with indignation. consequently, when poor robin, depressed from her first hour with the tutor, trying not to feel that gray manor was going to be a prison instead of a castle, sought out her new friend she found her throwing her few possessions into a cheap suitcase that lay, opened, across her narrow bed. "oh, what are you doing?" cried robin in alarm. "i'm going--that's what. she fired me." robin's first thought upon awaking that morning had been of beryl; she had suffered the keenest impatience all through the trying morning, longing to go in search of her new friend. she could not lose her now--for a hundred budges. "oh, i won't let you go!" "a lot _you_ could do!" cried beryl scornfully, tears very close. "i just can't please the old thing. but i hate to go home." she sat down, dolefully, on the edge of the bed. "i wanted to stay until i had earned two hundred dollars." two hundred dollars! that seemed such a very big amount of money to robin that she sat silent, thinking about it. beryl, misinterpreting her quiet, tossed her head. "i s'pose that doesn't mean much to you. but it does to me--'specially when i have to earn it." then, with a flash of temper: "what do you know about wanting some one thing with all your whole heart and knowing just where you can get it and not having the money?" beryl made her tragedy very real and pouring out her troubles always brought her a grain of comfort. "i've never had a thing in my life that i wanted," she finished. "oh, beryl, i'm so sorry." "sorry! why, a lucky little thing like you are can't even know what i'm talking about. that's why i said we couldn't be friends. _i've_ had to work at home like a slave ever since i can remember. pop's sick all the time and cross, and poor mother looks so tired and tries to be so cheerful and brave that your heart aches for her. and even when you're poor, a girl wants things, pretty things and to do things like other girls--and work as hard as you can you can't ever seem to reach them. i get just sick of it. i thought--if i could get this money--" "did you want it for your mother?" broke in robin, sympathetically. beryl's face flushed redder. "well, not exactly. that's the way it always is in books, but in life, when you're poor, it's each fellow for himself and there's not any time for your grand sounding self-sacrifice. i wanted it to buy a violin. that thing i've got's nothing but a cheap old fiddle. and i can play--i _know_ i can play, or could if i could get a good violin. i took lessons from an old belgian who lived above us and i played once for martini at the theatre and he said--but what's the use of caring? what's the use of _thinking_ about it? all a girl like me can do is just want big things!" "oh, beryl," breathed robin, a tremble on her lips. she wanted very much to make beryl understand that she was not the "lucky thing" beryl thought her; that she knew, too, what it was to want something and not to have it, though perhaps she had not known it as cruelly as beryl had, for jimmie had always contrived to cover their bleak moments with a makeshift contentment. "oh, beryl, honestly i know just how you feel. i wish i could help you. maybe i can. my allowance seems awfully big and i can't ever spend it all--" "well, i'm not a beggar and i'm not hinting for your money," flared beryl. "i didn't mean--" robin began, then faltered. beryl had spoken with such real anger that she was frightened. beryl, turning back to her packing, gathered up an armful of clothing on top of which lay an oblong bundle. its wrappings were old and loose so that as beryl flounced her burden toward the suitcase, the content of the package slipped out and down to the floor. robin stared in amazement for there lay a doll in faded satin finery. with a short, ashamed laugh, beryl picked it up. "_that_ old thing," she exclaimed, in half-apology. robin caught her arm. "wait--oh, wait--let me see it!" "it's just an old doll i've kept." "it--it looks like my cynthia. oh, _please_ just let me look at it. it's like a doll--i lost, once, ever so long ago." she examined the pretty clothing. now beryl stared at robin as though to find in her face a likeness to the little girl who had deserted her doll. "lost? and i found it in sheridan square. a little girl went off and left it. i waited awhile, then i took the doll home." "oh, how funny! how _funny_! it was me, beryl. i'd been playing and mr. tony called to me to hurry and i forgot--and you found it. why, i cried myself to sleep night after night thinking poor cynthia was unhappy somewhere." "and i called her my orphan doll and loved her because i thought she missed her real mother--" "she was the loveliest dolly i ever had!" "she was the loveliest dolly i ever saw!" both girls burst into a peal of laughter. they sat on the edge of the bed, the doll between them, the packing forgotten. robin clapped her hands. "and to think we find each other now. it's like a story. i went back to the park all alone that evening and would have been lost if it hadn't been for my--" she broke off short and flushed. she was going to tell beryl about her play-prince but then, beryl might laugh and she did not want that. beryl's face suddenly grew grave as she smoothed out a fold of the doll-garment. "i always kept the doll put away. i never played with it because--" she hesitated a moment. "that night that i found the doll was a dreadful night. i wasn't quite six but i'll always remember it. at first mother and i were so happy, over finding the doll and because pop had just gotten a raise. it seemed as though everything were going to be wonderful and we felt as rich as could be. we called the doll a lucky doll. and mother dressed me up in her green beads that father murphy, back in ireland, had given her when she told him she was going to marry pop. and we had dumplings--ugh, i've hated dumplings ever since. and then--" "what happened?" "they came for mom, some man from the hospital. pop had been terribly hurt. and, well--nothing's been lucky since. it's just as i said; mother's had to work and dale's had to work and pop just sits in a chair and scolds and--well, i never wanted to take the doll out when mother could see it--after all that." robin made no effort to conceal how deeply beryl's story had moved her. "oh, beryl, i'm so sorry. but maybe things will change. they'll have to--jimmie always said, it's a long lane that has no turning. i'm so glad it was you who found my cynthia. it might have been some one who wouldn't have loved her at all." "i s'pose you ought to have her now." "oh, no, no. she's yours. anyway, that doesn't matter," and robin added triumphantly, "because we're really truly friends now, no matter what you say. cynthia has brought us together." beryl shook her head. "that old crank--" she began. robin stamped her foot in impatience. "i don't care a bit about mrs. budge. my guardian told me that i could have anything i wanted here just for the asking and he's made me the silliest big allowance that three girls couldn't spend. oh, i've a plan! ought not a girl like me have a companion? don't they most always in books? you shall stay here at gray manor as my--chum." beryl still looked doubtful. "i'm too young--" "that's just why i want you. oh, i just can't bear to think of my guardian going away and leaving me here alone. you see i promised myself that i'd be happy while jimmie's having his chance--that's why i came, you know. but this house is so big and so old and mr. harkness and mrs. budge are so old that i know it's going to be hard not to think of jimmie and our lovely home and the birds. but if you'd stay it would be easier. oh, say you will, say you will." beryl stared at robin with a suspicious scrutiny. she firmly believed that rich people never did anything except for themselves and robin, no doubt, was like all the others. yet she was such a queer little thing that perhaps she _was_ trying to be "nice" to her and make a soft place for her. and beryl would not allow _that_ for a moment. "you can study with me, too. that mr. tubbs isn't so very bad. and we'll read together out of all those books in the library. and play--i never had a real chum because jimmie thought the girls and boys who went to the school i did, might make fun of my being lame. poor jimmie, he always minded my being lame much more than i did because he's an artist and shivers when anything isn't perfect. you shall have a bed in my room--there's ever so much space. oh, say you will." beryl frowned, uncertainly. "i don't want a penny i don't earn. but if i can really _do_ things for you--" "oh, of course you can, lots of things. but you shan't wear those uniforms--for then you wouldn't be a girl like me. oh, we'll have _such_ fun. let's take this stuff right down." it took the girls only a very little time to transfer beryl's belongings and to establish them in robin's room, beryl working mechanically, unable to believe her good fortune. then, at robin's command, she followed her while she went in search of her guardian. cornelius allendyce and percival tubbs, sitting in a blue cloud of cigar smoke, were pleasantly discussing the pros and cons of the tariff question upon which they agreed, when robin interrupted them. "please excuse me, but this is very important." her breathlessness startled the two men. "i've engaged beryl to be my chum. i--i thought i might be lonely here at gray manor. i want her to study with me, too. and do everything. this is she." cornelius allendyce's mouth had dropped open from sheer amazement; suddenly it broadened into a grin. here was miss gordon taking her "head" at once, without so much as one lesson. he glanced at percival tubbs but that good gentleman was stroking his silky beard quite indifferently. "i'd rather have beryl than anyone else, 'cause she's almost my own age and we like each other. shall i tell mrs. budge or--" "without so much as a by-your-leave!" murmured the guardian. he surveyed beryl; she seemed like a wholesome, spirited sort and the idea of a little companion for miss gordon was not a bad one, not at all--strange he hadn't thought of it. "perhaps, miss gordon, you'd better tell her yourself. you must begin--holding your own, my dear. don't forget--ever, that you are a forsyth, and that name has great power over hannah budge." robin did not stop to ponder what he meant or why a twinkle shone in his eyes. she rang the bell as her guardian indicated, then waited with a resolute squaring of her small chin, for harkness' coming. "please, mr. harkness, will you bring mrs. budge here? there's something i want to tell you both." mrs. budge, as she hunted out a clean apron, grumbled at the unusual summons. "the girl herself, you say?" she asked, as she followed harkness to the library. her astonishment changed to white wrath when robin, standing by her guardian's chair, spoke. "i wanted to tell you that beryl lynch is going to stay here as my companion. i'm going to give her half of my room so that i won't be lonely and please set a place for her next to me at the table." once again cornelius allendyce caught the twinkle in the butler's eye which should not be in a forsyth butler's eye at all. but there was no twinkle about mrs. budge; her cheeks puffed in her effort to speak without strangling. "if that piece--" she began, but she was quickly interrupted from every side. both harkness and cornelius allendyce cried out, the one pleadingly, the other in warning: "careful, mrs. budge." then robin stepped forward and slipped her hand through beryl's arm. "please, mrs. budge, i have made beryl promise to stay. she didn't want to but i begged her. and if anyone is unkind to her it's just the same as being--unkind to me. that is all," she finished grandly, with an imperious little motion of her hand that waved the irate woman from the room before she knew she was moving. "now you can't say as that wasn't like a forsyth," asserted harkness, proudly, belowstairs. "if missy wants a young lydy for a companion, well, she's a right to the kind of young lydy she wants." but budge had escaped the reach of his voice. in the library cornelius allendyce was patting robin on the head. "well, you've won out in the first skirmish, my dear. but keep your weapons at hand." chapter ix the lynchs the only thing that made the lynch's cottage any different from the two hundred others at the mills, was that it stood at the end of a dreary row and therefore had a window on the side of its living room which overlooked the hills and the river. this window was moira lynch's delight. her poor, big danny could sit in it all day long. and from it she herself could watch the setting sun flame over the crest of the hills and the narrow river shake off its workaday dress and go racing into the shadows of the woods. poor moira, years of heartbreaking work and worry had not changed her very much from the girl who had liked to lie in the deep sweet grass of her dear ireland and let her fancy follow the winging birds into a land of dreams. the other window of the tiny living room looked out directly upon the muddy road, across to the freight tracks. it was to this window that moira lynch ran now, peering as far up the road as she could see. "beryl's late today," she said, with an anxious note. "well, what if she is? things don't run by the clock," danny lynch answered testily. "you're always fussing. if it isn't the girl it's over dale." mrs. moira ignored the edge of crossness in her danny's voice. she went to him, smoothed the spotless cushion at his back and put a fresh magazine on his table. "it's a silly, worryin' hen i am," she laughed. (but, oh, her laugh was a tragic thing, for while her lips curved in a smile her eyes shadowed at their mockery). "but things seem a bit different, today," she added, apologetically. and just as danny lynch's retort of derision died away beryl burst upon them. her mother needed only to give her one look to know that something _was_ different. "and what is it, my darlin'? it's that hungry i was getting to set my eyes on you. two hours late you are, beryl." beryl welcomed this reproach as it gave her an opportunity to impart her good news in an impressive way. "i couldn't get away a minute sooner. i've a new position." she was going to say "job" but it did not seem fitting. "what? without so much as a word to your father and mother? and did the likes of that old housekeeper fire you?" beryl had no intention of telling of her ignominious fray with mrs. budge. "i'm engaged to be a companion to gordon forsyth!" she answered, grandly. at this moira lynch dropped a spoon with a loud clatter. "a companion to--that new boy who's come to the manor?" beryl, recognizing that her story needed detailed explanation, slipped off her outer wraps, threw them into a chair, kissed her father lightly on his cheek, perched herself on the old sofa and proceeded to tell the story of gordon forsyth's coming to gray manor while her mother listened with breathless interest. "and it's a girl she is--a little lame girl!" "the queerest kid you ever saw. not a bit snippy or rich acting. she doesn't get at all excited over her new clothes and bossing those old fogeys around and ordering her motor any minute she wants it. she thinks the little place she lived in in new york is lots nicer than gray manor. when you look at her you think she's a baby and then when she talks, why--she seems older than i am! but she's funny like you, mom; she's always pretending things are different from what they are and giving them names. she calls old budge the wicked woman who wanted to eat the two children," beryl giggled. "and she calls the mills a giant." moira lynch's face beamed with joyous understanding. here was a fellow-soul, "funny" like herself, beryl described her; beryl, for whom black was always and invariably black, and a spade a spade. "why, she even wanted to come down here with me," beryl finished. there were so many questions trembling on moira's tongue that, for the moment, supper was neglected. not long, however; the striking of the clock reminded her that in a very few minutes dale would be home, hungry. her mission in life, next to tending her big danny, was feeding her two children. for tonight she had made beryl's favorite dessert, a bread pudding, the eggs for which she had carefully hoarded during several days' denial. beryl, keeping up a running fire of talk, spread the cloth on the centre table and brought the dishes from the cupboard. "by'n by, you'll be too fine for the rest of us," broke in big danny upon their chatter, the usual discordant tone in his voice. "well, i guess it won't be your fault if i am," beryl flared. "everything that i've gotten i've gotten for myself and i don't know of anyone ever trying to help me." like a flash the little mother was between the two, a soothing hand on the father's shoulder. "now don't you two be a-spoiling this night," she laughed a bit hysterically. "of course our girl's going to be too fine for anyone, but it's always a-loving she'll be to her dad and her mommy." she declared it with an ardent triumph. this mother who had once dreamed things for herself dreamed them now for her boy and girl. from beryl's infancy she had taught her to want "fine things." and beryl wanted them with all her heart and, with youth's selfishness, wanted them for herself, alone. after her father's taunt, beryl, with sullen resentment, locked her lips on her other pleasant experiences. nor would she tell now how robin had written to her guardian to send down a real violin for her to practice upon, or what fun it was to study with mr. percival tubbs, whose ears were distractingly like brussels sprouts. and that she learned much, much faster than robin did! poor robin was always wondering the why of everything. her mother suddenly exclaimed: "it's father murphy's beads you shall wear this night, my girl. didn't the good soul, god rest him, give them with his blessing? watch the potatoes while i get them." moira's beads had always played a significant part in her life. they marked what she called her "blessings." without doubt the rare bright spots in her life shone like blessings for the dark of their background. years ago, when her danny had had his accident and her world had seemed to turn upside down until it rested, full-weight, upon her poor shoulders, her "blessing" had been miss lewis at the settlement. miss lewis had given her work so that she could earn money to feed her family; miss lewis had sent the chair to danny; miss lewis had found cheaper lodgings and had helped her make them homelike. another blessing had been jacques henri, the old belgian who lived above them and whose violin had attracted beryl as the magnet draws the iron. a lonely soul, he had found sweet company in the child and had gladly helped the eager fingers. later he had come down to supper with them and beryl had played a "piece" for her pop, wearing the beads in honor of the occasion. when beryl had graduated from the graded school she had stood as class prophet before an assemblage of fond relatives, among them dale and herself--wearing the green beads. moira had wished father murphy were there to see her girl. she clasped them around the girl's neck now with fingers that trembled and eyes bright with the tears which were always close to them. during the little ceremony dale burst in like a gust of strong, sweet air. "hullo, everybody! m'm'm, something smells good! what's for tonight, mom? salt pork and thick gravy? fried potatoes? good! hullo, sis. how goes it, pop?" his greeting embraced everything and everyone in a rush, from the savory supper to the invalid father whose face had brightened at his coming. "what're you getting all dolled up for, sis?" beryl and her mother tried to tell the story at the same time. dale did not seem at all impressed and beryl was disappointed. he said he had heard in the mills that the newcomer at the manor was a girl, and lame, too. he didn't know what difference it made to any of them, anyway. he scowled a little as he said it. dale had his father's strong body and his mother's face of a dreamer; his eyes were brooding like beryl's but his mouth was wide and tender and might have seemed weak but for the strength in the square cut jaw. since that time, ten years back, when he had resolutely put behind him his precious ambitions and had taken the first job he could find, he had been the recognized head of the family. as such he turned to beryl now. "i suppose you'll let this rich little girl wipe her feet on you and you'll love it," he said with such scorn that beryl turned hot and cold in speechless anger. "now, sonny, now, sonny. let's wait until we know the poor little thing," begged his mother. but for beryl, except for the fun of wearing the beads, all joy for the moment had fled. she had particularly wanted to impress dale with her good fortune. she had often, of course, heard dale speak scathingly and bitterly of the "classes" and the "privileged few" and the unfairness of things in general, but she had paid little attention to it and could not, anyway, connect it with unassuming robin. when he met robin, he'd understand--and while dale ate ravenously and talked to his father between mouthfuls, she planned how she would bring robin to supper the very next time she came home, despite her vow that she would never let robin see how humble and small her home was. after supper beryl helped her mother clear away and dale brought out his "plaything" which was what he laughingly called the contrivance of strings and spools and little wooden wheels he had made and which he and his father "played with" each evening. beryl had often wondered why dale seemed to care so much about it; why he spent hours and hours drawing and figuring on bits of paper. of course it amused the father, who, during the day, cut the spools into tiny wheels, with a sharp jack-knife; but it must be stupid for dale to spend all of his evenings over the silly thing. beryl often lounged on the back of his chair and listened to discover whether there was any part of the game she might like. tonight dale's interest seemed forced. "if i could just find out what's needed _here_--" he growled, touching the delicate contrivance. "that's the way! while i'm racking my poor old nut, some other fellow's going to make the whole thing out!" danny lynch's big hand trembled where it lay on the table. "if i had had the learning--" he began. "i could help, mebbe." dale hastened to comfort him. "you don't get that stuff from books, exactly, pop. it comes here," touching his head. "if i only had the money to have the thing made in metal. oh, well, what's the use of talking. the thing's got my goat, though. i'm thinking about it all the time. say, mom, can i bring adam kraus over to supper some night? he said he'd like to meet pop and he's a good sort." this adam kraus had only recently come to the mills. he had at first impressed the neighborhood somewhat unfavorably, for he encouraged a suggestion of mystery, lived at the inn, kept aloof from everyone, and seemed to have no family. moira's own quick thought of him when dale had pointed him out on the road in front of the mill store was that "he looked too white for a working man." but he seemed to have singled dale out for his advances; dale thought he was a good sort and had met him more than half-way; dale who had had to work too hard by day and study at night to make any close friendships. whether she liked him or not, he should have the best she could offer. "_i'm_ going to bring robin--i mean, miss forsyth, down here the next time _i_ come," broke in beryl. "and of course you can. and dale shall bring his friend, too." "and you can wear your fine beads, sis," finished dale, teasingly. "and it's a nice pot roast and cabbage salad we'll have, too. and a bit of the fruit cake with real butter sauce." wasn't she going to get her check soon from the store to which she sent her lace? so beryl forgot her vexation and dale his problem with his wooden toy in pleasant anticipation of the "dinner party," as mrs. moira grandly called it, out of respect to the pot roast and the fruit cake which miss lewis had sent them and which was hidden away in a huge crock in the shed. "mom, can't i take the beads back with me? they're so pretty and i haven't a thing that's nice," begged beryl as the moment for her to return to the manor came. "the princess and the beggar-maid!" laughed dale. "my fine lady must have her jewels!" added big danny. beryl flushed under their teasing but held her tongue, for didn't she always have that picture blazed in her heart of the moment when with her violin she would hold enthralled her unappreciative family and thousands of others? _then_ they would not laugh at her! "i'll be ever so careful of them and only wear them once in a while," she promised. though mrs. moira would, of course, have given her children anything they wanted that was hers, she hesitated now, not from reluctance to part with her one "pretty" but because suddenly out of the silent past came the old father's words: "they are only beads. but they'll remind you of this day." she had been seventeen then--a slip of a girl. beryl was almost sixteen now. "the shame to me! sure, it's only beads they are!" she laughed, with a little catch in her voice. "of course you shall take them." chapter x the lady of the rushing waters "what'll we do today?" beryl asked the question, turning from her post between the curtains of robin's sitting-room. not in a tone of complaint did she speak, rather as though weighing which pastime would be most worthy of the unexpected holiday. for poor percival tubbs had "neuralgy" and could not leave his room; harkness had told them when he carried in their breakfast. "_this_ is just the kind of a day you'd like _something_ to happen," beryl went on, permitting a sigh to convey how much she would welcome that something. "it's all gray and mysterious. the hills look awfully far away. it's lonesomey." robin looked anxiously to her companion. _she_ did not feel lonesome at all. this room, where they ate their breakfast each morning at harkness' suggestion, was cosy and full of inviting books and pretty pictures and comfy chairs; harkness was ever so nice and concerned as to their comfort, they were as secure from mrs. budge's hostility as thick walls and harkness' vigilance could make them and--best of all, a letter from her jimmie, full of mr. tony's plans and their contemplated sailing, lay close to her heart. "what would you like most to do, beryl?" "oh, let's ask williams to take us for a long ride--i adore going like the wind," answered beryl promptly. this suggestion appealed to robin, who, although she didn't like to "go like the wind," never tired of riding among the hills. she went immediately with beryl to find williams, the chauffeur. williams, like the others around the manor, with the exception of mrs. budge, had fallen under robin's spell and was enjoying the stir that her coming brought to the old house. so he declared, now, that it would be a "nice day for a run" and they could take the cornwall road, because there was a fellow in cornwall he ought to see. before the holiday fun could begin beryl had her "duties" to perform. these were tasks which she had set for herself so that she might not feel for one moment that she was living on robin's charity and were most of them quite unnecessary and little things that robin would really like to do herself. however beryl was too proudly intent upon saving her pride to realize this and robin, instinctively understanding, let her have her way. finally started, the girls snuggled close together in the car, holding hands under the big robe. and, as they sped over the smooth road, each let her thoughts take wings. beryl's, with the honest self-centredness that was characteristic of her, fluttered about herself. how she looked in this peachy car--how she'd love to steer it and just step on the gas and fly; some day, when she was famous, she'd have a car like this only much bigger and painted yellow and she'd take mom and pop out and go through the mill neighborhood so that that gossipy mrs. whaley who had called her "stuck-up" could see her. what she'd do in robin's shoes, anyway! why, robin didn't know what money meant, probably because robin had never wanted any one big thing, like she did. robin, beside her, sat in cosy contentment--mainly because of her precious letter. she drew a mental picture of her jimmie, sailing away. then her thoughts came back to the gray hills and she wished her father might see them at that moment, so as to paint them. he would love wassumsic, she knew--but, oh, he would hate the mills. he would think, as she did, that it was too bad they had built the mill cottages between the dingy buildings and the freight yards when they might have built them where each window could have overlooked the climbing fields and woods, where the children could have played in sweet grass the livelong day and built beautiful snow forts when it was winter. beryl suddenly broke the silence by a gleeful "isn't this fun?" as williams coasted down a long grade with a breath-catching acceleration of speed. the wind had whipped a fine color into the girls' cheeks, the changing scenes about them were of untiring interest; they exclaimed delightedly over each curve and hill in the road, each tiny hamlet through which they passed. all too soon, they reached cornwall and started on the homeward way. at the top of a steep hill williams slowed down to slip the gear into second. in the valley below them was a collection of unpainted houses, leaning towards one another as though for protection against the growing things about them. "the forgotten village!" cried robin. "don't you feel just as though we might tumble over into it?" "a good place to drive right _through_," williams answered with a scornful laugh. alas, poor williams--he brought the car skilfully and safely down the difficult hill only to have it stop, with a reproachful snort, in the very heart of the little village. "what's the matter?" asked the girls in one breath as williams, with an explosive exclamation, jumped from his seat. there was a moment of investigation, before the man replied. "no gas!". "is _that_ all?" "all! i'll say that's enough--here. don't look as though anyone'd know what gas is in these parts. you sit in the car while i ask someone, miss forsyth." "you wanted something to happen, beryl," laughed robin, as williams walked away. "pooh! _this_ isn't much of an adventure. and i'm awfully hungry." poor williams returned with the word that he'd have to walk on to the next town--unless he was lucky enough to meet someone who'd help him out. he advised the girls waiting in the store. "there isn't even a telephone in this dump," he grumbled resentfully, quite forgetting that he had only his own carelessness to blame for the whole thing. neither robin nor beryl had the slightest intention of waiting in the funny little store where the crackers and tea and coffee looked as old as the old man who came out from behind the counter at their approach. they waited until williams had disappeared, then went forth to explore the forgotten village. unabashed, they stared at the weather-beaten houses, at the old woman, a faded shawl tied around her head, washing clothes at a pump, at the hideous square of dingy brick which served as school house and church, its window frames stuffed here and there with rags, a pathetic sign upon which was printed "library," hanging crazily by one nail. beyond the church stood an old mill, its roof tumbled in. exploring it the girls heard the sound of tumbling water and discovered a stream breaking its way through thick undergrowth. a lane, marked by two wagon ruts, edged the course of the stream. "let's see where this goes," suggested beryl. robin limped willingly after her. it was an alluring lane, even in november, for the ghostly gray branches of old trees met and interlocked close overhead, fir trees, mingling with the silver white trunks of slender birches, walled it either side, a whirring of invisible wings added to its apartness and the little stream, tumbling its way, sounded like laughter. "isn't this the loveliest spot? wherever do you suppose it comes out?" for the lane twisted and turned as it climbed. "robin, there's a house!" ahead of them the girls could see through the trees the outlines of a low square house. and as they drew nearer, walking stealthily, they stared in amazement. for, unlike its neighbors in the village below, this house was as white as fresh white paint could make it, at the windows hung crisply white curtains, a brass knocker dignified its broad door. robin, always imaginative, clutched beryl's arm with a breathless giggle. "beryl, it's like the house of bread and cake with the window panes of sugar. do you suppose someone will call out: 'tip-tap, tip-tap, who raps on my door'?" "sh-h! i'm hungry enough to eat the roof. let's ask for a drink of water so's to see the inside." robin did not think it was just nice to deliberately intrude upon the privacy of this shut-away house but beryl, not waiting for her approval, knocked boldly on the heavy old door. when the door swung open, however, and a beaked-nosed woman, absurdly like the witch of the fairy story, confronted the girls, beryl stood tongue-tied and robin had to come to the rescue. "can we--if you please, we had an accident--i mean, we went for a walk--oh, _may_ we have a drink of water?" she floundered, fairly blinking before the sharply piercing eyes of the woman in the door. "who is it, brina?" came from within, whereupon the woman answered in rapid german, her head turned backward over her shoulder, her hand still on the doorknob. "shame on you, brina. they are two children--lost, perhaps. let them come in." the room was disappointingly like any other old country-house living room; scrupulously clean and shining, a wide fireplace aglow with a wood fire that cast bright splotches of color over the low walls, the faded rag rugs, the piece-work cushions on the old wooden settle. close to its warmth sat a white-haired woman, one long thin hand supporting her head in such a way as to keep her face in a shadow. [illustration: "it's like the house of bread and cake"] robin explained their presence in the lane, incoherently, for there was something frightening about the silent, composed figure and the intentness with which those shadowed eyes scrutinized her. while robin talked, beryl swiftly surveyed the room and its occupants, not least of which was a great st. bernard dog, that, after one "gr'f'f" leaned against his mistress' chair and regarded the intruders with watchful eyes as though to reserve advances, friendly or hostile. her account finished, robin smiled bravely back into the grave face, with that enchanting tenderness which had won cornelius allendyce and enticed him to strange deeds. the smile worked its spell at least on the dog for he moved slowly over to her, lifted a big paw and placed it gravely upon her shoulder. "cæsar declares you a friend," said the woman in a slow, low-pitched voice. "he does not welcome many into our seclusion. please sit down. brina, bring these young ladies a pitcher of milk and some cookies." brina swung out of the room at her mistress' bidding. robin, uncomfortable but immensely curious and excited, sat on the edge of the settle and chattered, while beryl, well behind their silent hostess, made mysterious signs with fingers and lips and eyes. "we think this is the loveliest spot--the old town and the mill and this lane--and all. no one would ever dream from the road that this house was here. has it a name? first i called it the house of bread and cake and sugar--like the fairy story, but it ought to be called the house of rushing waters, hadn't it?" "that will do--very nicely. no, no one would know from the road that the house stands here." but when robin ventured: "aren't you ever lonely?" there was a perceptible tightening of the lips that made her sorry she had asked it. "robin, there's something funny about that whole place," declared beryl, half-an-hour later as they went back down the lane. "i was doing some thinking while you were talking." "she's a dear old lady, beryl. i feel sorry for her." "oh, yes, dear enough. _i_ thought she was stand-offish. but you don't think for a moment she belongs 'round here, in the same town with that old cheese down at the store?" robin admitted that everything about her house of rushing waters was very different from the forgotten village. "wasn't that brina just like a witch with her parrot nose and sharp eyes?" but beryl had no patience just now with robin's beloved fairy lore. two little lines wrinkled her brow. "there's something queer about that place or my name isn't beryl lynch. and i like to know what's what. wouldn't it be fun to find out what it is? whether she's hiding there on account of something or someone's keeping her a prisoner? maybe--" beryl lowered her voice, "maybe she's crazy." "oh, beryl, she didn't act a bit crazy. just very sad. she was nice. i thought the room was lovely, too--and the lunch and that darling dog." robin had thoroughly enjoyed the simple hospitality and meant to defend it. "of course the room was nice," beryl felt that she showed much patience with robin's obtuseness, "but didn't you see anything _different_ in that room? books and magazines! country people don't sit and read magazines and knit on rose wool in the middle of the afternoon! robin, _that_ woman's a lady! and you notice she didn't tell us who she was. and a woman with her talking some foreign jibberish." "beryl, you're wonderful to notice all these things. i'd never have noticed half of them." beryl tossed her head with pride. "nothing much escapes _me_," she boasted. "and i think it was a good thing we didn't tell her just who _we_ were. but let's not let a soul know about our finding this place until we unravel the mystery." robin hesitated. "she was so nice to us and it's really none of our business why she's there or who she is--" she argued so staunchly that beryl put in hastily: "well, let's just have it a secret because secrets are such fun." and to that robin agreed gladly, for secrets _are_ fun and are always a strengthening bond in true friendship. "i won't tell a soul!" she promised. they found williams waiting for them at the store, worried at their disappearance and annoyed at the delay. he had walked many miles in payment for his carelessness. as they rushed homeward, both girls thought of the house they had left and its lonely occupant. "wouldn't wonder a _bit_ if she might be some royalty person hiding here from anarchists," whispered beryl, with a burst of imagination, amazing for her, tinged by a novel she had recently read. "would we dare go again to see her?" "of course we're going. even if you don't, i want to find out who she is and all about her." "_i'd_ just like to see her again and that darling dog. if she doesn't want to tell us who she is i don't want her to! it's more fun to pretend that her house is made of bread and cake and sugar." "pooh!" was beryl's impatient answer. and that evening, as though in defense of her suspicions she thrust a newspaper under robin's nose with an expressive "there, read _that_!" at the same time pointing to an inconspicuous paragraph. the paragraph told of the mysterious disappearance of its dowager queen from the little warring balkan kingdom of altruria. "she could be in this country as well as not. i read a book once where a duke hid for five years right in the heart of new york and then met his heir face to face on broadway. wouldn't it be fun if that old woman _was_ this dowager queen?" "but, beryl, she talked english. wouldn't she talk--some other language?" beryl was not to be discouraged. "dowagers don't. they talk ever so many tongues. english as good as any. i'll bet anything you say. you just wait." chapter xi pot roast and cabbage salad the following wednesday had been set for mrs. lynch's dinner of "pot roast and cabbage salad." "you'll think we're awfully poor, robin, when you see that mean old cottage," beryl complained as the girls were dressing for the dinner. robin, hesitating between a madonna blue and a yellow dress, turned quickly at the tone in beryl's voice. "oh, beryl, what difference does your house make! i want to know your mother and your father and--dale." "well, there's no use your dressing up--it'll just make everything else there look absurdly shabby." robin laid the garment she held down upon the bed. a puzzled look darkened the glow in her eyes. there were a great many times when she found it difficult to understand beryl's changing moods. she herself was too indifferent to clothes to know that it was the two pretty gowns she had brought out from her wardrobe that had now sent beryl into the dumps. "i won't dress up, beryl. i just thought your mother would like to have me--out of respect to her party. i didn't think you wouldn't like it. but if you think i'm going down there to stare around at the things in the house and pick to pieces the dishes and the food--you're wrong, beryl. i think your mother must be a wonderful woman and i am just crazy to meet her and i know i'm going to love your father and i never talked to a boy in my whole life except in school when i had to! there!" robin stopped for very lack of breath. this unexpected show of spirit, so unlike robin's usual gentleness, took beryl back. fond as she was of her mother she had never thought of her as exactly "wonderful" or of anyone wanting to know her, or her poor, crippled father, or dale. she laughed a little shamefacedly. "oh, wear what you want to, robin. i suppose i'm jealous because i haven't anything except that old gray thing that's just tottering with age. what a joke to call dale a boy! why, he's never been a boy, because he's worked so hard for everything." "well, i'm glad i'm going to meet him, anyway." robin spoke with excitement. it did not matter at all what she wore--without a moment's hesitation she put away the blue and the yellow dress and brought forth the mouse colored jersey she had worn when she arrived at gray manor--she was going to meet beryl's family. robin, who had never had any family except "jimmie," imagined beautiful things of family life, mostly colored by books she had read and pictures she had seen. brothers were always big strong fellows who sometimes teased their younger sisters but were always ready with a helping hand; fathers--well, she knew about fathers, having had jimmie, but beryl's father must be very different because of his accident. it was "mom" that she most wanted to know. she hoped beryl's mother would kiss her. at the thought her heart gave a quick little beat. when percival tubbs, to whom harkness, uncertain as to the propriety of a forsyth dining at one of the mill cottages had appealed, had mildly endeavored to point out to robin that this dinner-party was not exactly "fitting," robin had simply not been able to understand and had answered so honestly: "why, just because i'm a forsyth doesn't make me a bit better than those people who work in the mills, does it?" that mr. tubbs had abandoned his point with a mental reservation not unlike mrs. budge's beloved: "things _are_ going to sixes and sevens." and below stairs the loyal harkness, putting off his own doubt, had met mrs. budge's scorn of the whole "goings-on" with a grand defense of his little mistress: "some lydies in 'igh places distribute their bounty in baskets but if miss gordon sees fit to carry 'ers in her pretty little 'eart, i don't say it's for us to be a thinking it isn't the 'appier way," and budge knew he was very much in earnest because he forgot his h's, a little trick of speech he had long ago overcome. for a finishing touch to her despised "best" dress, beryl brought forth her green beads. robin exclaimed over them, taking them out of beryl's hand to hold them to the light. "oh, they are lovely, beryl, see the deep glow! they're like the sea. you ought to be proud of them." "they're just some beads an old priest gave mother when she was a girl," beryl explained, making her voice indifferent. she loved robin's enthusiasm but half-suspected it might be "put on" in order to make up to her for the things she did not have. "they do look nice on this dress, though, don't they?" she laid them against her neck and stared with satisfaction at the reflection in the long mirror. the lynch cottage, in honor of the occasion, sparkled with orderliness. mrs. moira looked very gay in a pretty foulard she had made over from two of miss lewis' old dresses; her fluttering hands alone betrayed her nervousness and her fears that though the most tempting smells came from the stove her dinner might not be "just right" for little miss forsyth and for dale's new friend, too. however, when robin came into the room with beryl she looked so appealingly small that mrs. lynch promptly forgot she was a forsyth and that the dinner might not be good enough and put her arms around her and kissed her. and robin with an impulsive movement snuggled closer to the warm embrace. "why, it's a mite of a thing you are," cried mrs. moira with the singing note in her voice that always came when she was deeply moved. "and hungry, i hope. well, dale will be here in a moment and then we'll dish up." then everything was just like robin had hoped it would be. beryl's mother called them "children" and let them help her with the finishing touches of the dinner. beryl's father smiled at her and patted her hand. she did not see the little room with beryl's eyes, its limited space into which so much had to be crowded, the cracked shade on the lamp, the dingy carpeting that held together through some kind miracle, she only thought it cosy and homey; she liked the queer old clock and the blue bowl filled with artificial jonquils and the crocheted "tidies" with dogs designed in intricate stitches. "here's dale!" whispered beryl. "i'm crazy to meet his friend. i'm going to sit next to him at the table, see if i don't." in the excitement of dale's arrival and of introducing the strange "mr. kraus" no one noticed robin for a moment, or that she stared at dale with round, puzzled eyes. had she ever seen him before? when beryl turned suddenly and said: "dale, this is gordon forsyth," she hoped he would say: "why, i know her." however, he merely mumbled "how do you do," stiffly, and turned away, to beryl's indignation and robin's vague disappointment. the pot roast and the cabbage salad were as delicious as mrs. moira's loving pains could make them; dale's friend talked mostly to big danny and mrs. moira listened and dale occasionally put in a word. over her plate robin watched first one and then another, her eyes invariably coming back to dale's face. beryl, annoyed that no one noticed her and robin and treated them "as though they were just children," ate ravenously, in dignified silence. the talk centered about the mills. adam kraus freely ridiculed the forsyth methods. "they're miles behind the times," he declared and compared them glibly with other similar industries. "old norris belongs to the has-beens. look at the machinery he uses--all right in its day, of course. but if a fellow went to him with some new kind of a loom, would he look at it? not he! the old's good enough." "hear that, pop?" put in dale, exchanging a meaning glance with his father. "and look at the way they house the mill hands here, putting a fellow like dale with his cleanness and his brains and his possibilities, into a dump like this. they don't recognize the human element in industries of this sort or what it's worth to them. why, there's no argument any more as to the increased efficiency from giving better living conditions--but i'll bet norris hasn't heard of it." "we haven't been here long enough to know--" mrs. lynch began gently but dale interrupted her, his voice rough. "it isn't norris alone, adam. you've got to go further up--it's the house of forsyth. they're feudal lords--or like to think they are. do you suppose it mattered much up there, when the little castle girl had her arm crushed in that old wheel last month and died because her body wasn't nourished enough to stand under the amputation? a lot they cared--just one bit of machinery gone for a day--another--" "_dale_--" cried mrs. lynch, in distressed embarrassment, and suddenly everyone looked at robin. robin had been listening to adam kraus and dale with deep interest. it was not until mrs. lynch exclaimed and all eyes turned in her direction that she connected what they were saying with her own self. under dale's sudden scrutiny she flushed. "i forgot you were here, little miss forsyth." but this was so far from an apology that mrs. lynch looked more distressed than before and beryl glared at her brother. "oh, _please_ don't mind me," begged robin. _she_ was glad dale did not say he was sorry for what he had been saying; she wanted to know more. she wanted to tell them that _she_ called the mills a giant and that she hated them and that cornelius allendyce had told her she should look for a jack who could climb the bean stalk, only she was afraid of the stranger and a little of dale, too. "won't you tell me all about the--the castle girl?" "there isn't much to tell about her that's different from ninety-nine other cases. she was supporting a younger brother and sister. the brother's only twelve years old but he had to go to work--said he was sixteen. the kid sister helps the grandmother as much as she can." "do they live in one of these houses?" "in the old village. they're cheaper, you see. the boy can't earn as much as sarah castle did and they had to move up the river." "could i go to see them--sometime?" mrs. lynch answered for dale. "of course you can, dearie. and i'll go with you. it's from my own county they say the grandmother comes and likely she'll know some of the old people." "oh, will you?" robin's eyes shone like two deep pools reflecting starlight. "i'd like to know _everyone_ here in the village and what they do. perhaps the--the other forsyths wanted to really know the mill people, too, only they--they've been so unhappy. but i'm different, you see--i'm a girl and so sort of--little." "bless the warm little heart of her--defending her own," thought mrs. lynch, and dale, his face softening until it was boyish, smiled and said: "you _are_ a little thing, aren't you?" at his smile, a wave of memory rushed over robin with such suddenness that a breathless "oh" escaped her parted lips. a dark night and lonely streets, a chill wind cutting her face, an iron fence enclosing a deserted triangle of dead grass and filthy papers--a kind voice telling her not to cry--of course, her prince! she peeped almost fearfully at dale who was joking with beryl. _he_ did not know--he had forgotten, of course. he had been a big boy, then, and he had not gone on playing the little game the way she had. how wonderful, how _very_ wonderful, to find him. and beryl's brother! she did not mind at all what he had said about the forsyth's. if he said it, it must be true. she would find out. mrs. lynch, beaming over her simple dinner, little knew that destiny sat at her board, shaping, moulding, gathering and weaving the threads of life, golden and drab. to beryl's disgust, after the meal dale brought forth his "toy." but adam kraus, instead of showing the boredom which beryl expected, studied it with absorbed keenness, quickly grasping what dale wanted to do. "have you ever shown this to morris?" he asked dale. dale shook his head. "no use to do it now--until i've worked the thing out to perfection. and i can't do that--without money." robin, wiping plates for mrs. lynch, caught dale's words and adam kraus' answer. "i wonder if norris would see what an invention like that--if you can make it do what you say you can--would be worth to these mills. it would lift them out of the boneyard of antiquity and put them fifty years ahead of their competitors. why, i'll bet granger's would give you a cool twenty thousand for that just as it stands. it would serve norris right, too." dale's face flushed with excitement. "do you really think all that, adam? pop and i've gotten so down in the dumps trying to work the thing out that we've lost our sense of values." "inventors never have any," laughed kraus, with a change in his voice. and he commenced hastily to talk of other things, to dale's disappointment. robin pulled timidly at dale's arm. "who's grangers?" "grangers? don't you know the big mills up at south falls?" "would they--if they took--that--you'd go there--" she tried desperately to voice the fear that had shaped in her heart; grangers taking this funny wooden thing that mr. kraus said was worth so much, and dale going away from wassumsic, and dale's mother--and beryl. "you just bet i would," and dale laughed. "but don't worry, we won't be going for a while." robin had so much to think about that night that she could not go to sleep. she did not want to go to sleep. up to this day she had been just little robin forsyth, "red-robin," at gray manor to let jimmie have his chance; happy, because jimmie was having his chance and beryl was with her and beryl was unfailingly interesting. now she realized that a forsyth couldn't be just "anything." a forsyth ought to care about those awful mills, that were in some sort of a "boneyard," and about the people who worked in them--especially poor sarah castle's brother and sister. and there were probably many other boys and girls. she'd ask mrs. lynch--or dale. beryl stirred and robin ventured to speak. "beryl, are you awake? if mr. norris bought that invention of your brother's, would it make things easier for--the mill people?" beryl jerked herself up on her elbow. "red-robin forsyth, are you crazy? fussing over that absurd toy of dale's at this hour? why should _you_ care?" beryl sank back into her pillows and stretched. "didn't mr. kraus have the most glorious eyes?" robin answered with amazing positiveness. "no, i hated his eyes. they were not true eyes. but--i like dale--lots." and just here, for the second time, she locked her lips on her precious secret for dale must never know that she remembered him; all that belonged to her childhood. beryl might laugh, too, as she often did at her "fancies," and call her "funny." thinking of dale brought her thoughts back to the mills so that while beryl snuggled her sleepy head back into her pillow, she stared at the thin shaft of light that shone under the door and wished she was big instead of "a little bit of a thing" and very wise so that she would know what to do to show these people in wassumsic that she--a forsyth, _did_ care. chapter xii robin writes a letter cornelius allendyce had returned to new york from gray manor with his mind pleasantly at ease so far as gordon forsyth was concerned. his associates noticed a certain smugness and satisfaction about him and they often caught him smiling at inappropriate moments and then pulling himself together as though his thoughts had been wandering far from fields of law. cornelius allendyce _did_ feel pleased with himself. how many men would have dared put this thing through the way he had? and how well it had all turned out; madame somewhere seeking her "rest," living in her past, her mind undisturbed, jimmie sailing away to get inspiration, and little robin happy in the shelter of gray manor. indeed, it had all turned out so surprisingly well that he could tuck it away, figuratively speaking, in the steel box in his safe, marked "forsyth." only he did not want to--he liked to think it all over. up to the time of finding robin, girls were a species of the human race of which the lawyer knew little. he supposed that they were all alike--pretty, fun-loving, timid, giggly, prone to curl themselves like kittens, impulsive, and pardonably vain. he knew absolutely nothing of the fearless, honest, open-air girls, with hearts and souls as straight and clean as their healthy young bodies or that there were legions like little robin and beryl who, because they had been cheated of much that went to the making of these others, stood as a type apart. he only thought--as he went over the whole thing--that robin's jimmie was to blame for her being "different," leaving her alone so much and letting her take responsibilities way over her head; now she would enjoy the girlish pleasures that were her due. his sister effie had supplied her with everything in the way of clothes and knick-knacks she could want; harkness would keep old mrs. budge in line, tubbs would go light with the school work--he had certainly made a point of _that_, and, when he could run up to wassumsic again, he'd look over this little companion robin had adopted. if she were not all that she ought to be (miss effie had somewhat disturbed him on this point) why, a change could be made; someone a little older and more cultured (miss effie's word) could be sent up from new york. upon this train of pleasant contemplation, enjoyed at intervals in his work, robin's letter, written a few days after her dinner at mrs. lynch's, fell like a bomb. "dear guardian," she had begun, i am ever so sorry i haven't written for so long, but i haven't had a minute, really, truly. there are so many things to look at and to do. i am beginning to really love gray manor--it is so always and always beautiful. mr. harkness is a dear and is very good and tells me what to do many times when i am stupid and do not see for myself--like the finger-bowls. jimmie and i never used finger-bowls. i don't mind the school work, though i simply can't keep up with beryl. when you come up, i will tell you how wonderful beryl is and all about her family. her mother had a lovely dinner one night and beryl took me. beryl is going to be a great violinist, you know, and she is saving money to buy a real violin that will be all her own and take lessons. she will not let me do a thing to help her, which is splendid--i mean, for her to be so proud and brave, though i wish she would let me do just a little. we have some very good times together, mostly taking lovely rides back in the hills to places harkness tells us about and once we took our lunch and mr. tubbs and harkness went, though mr. tubbs had dreadful neuralgia afterwards. beryl and i read every evening. i love the books. i think i've been hungry for them all my life and didn't know it. we're playing a game to see which of us can read the most. we can play forever because one day we counted the books in the library and there are one thousand and seventy four and harkness says there are more in christopher the third's room. harkness has been telling us all about him and he showed us his picture--you know, the one in the dragon's sitting-room (i apologize, in aunt mathilde's room) and he looked like a young prince, didn't he? how will aunt mathilde ever reconcile herself to a little insignificant, lame thing like me when she sees me? oh, i wish i could really _truly_ meet my good fairy somewhere--the one who forgot to attend my birth--and she'd give me one wish, i'd just ask for one. and that wish would be to g-r-o-w. i never cared before but now i want to be big. oh, and wise! mr. tubbs will tell you how stupid i am. a forsyth ought to be big and wise. you see, before this i have never thought of myself as a real true forsyth--i've always just been jimmie's daughter. but lately i've been thinking a lot about what a forsyth ought to be and there are about a million questions i'd like to ask: . ought mr. norris to let the mills sink into a boneyard of antiquity? . what is the very most money i could spend all in one lump and can i spend it without telling anyone about it beforehand? . there's an empty cottage just below where the manor road crosses the river and williams says the forsyths own it. can beryl and i use it for a club? thinking of the questions makes me forget the other nine hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven, (i did that on paper) but please come to gray manor soon so that i can ask the rest. your loving red-robin. p.s. the violin came and thanks ever and ever so much though beryl says she will not call it hers for one little minute. but she most cried over it she loves it so and she makes the most beautiful music with it. i am dreadfully jealous because she won't even listen to a word i say now. she says she's living in the clouds. it's wonderful to have a big dream, isn't it? but i am starting one which i'll tell you when it's big enough." mr. allendyce read the letter three times, stopping at intervals to polish his glasses as though they must be at fault. "what does this mean?" he exclaimed over and over. "what's up?" why on earth was robin worrying her little head over the mills and talking so absurdly about a boneyard? and why did she want more money? and who were these people with whom she had dined? and what did she and beryl want with a club when they had all gray manor to play in? not able to answer any of these disturbing questions the poor man sought out miss effie--who, having been a girl, once, herself, ought to know something of the vagaries of a girl's mind. miss effie felt very proud that her brother cared anything for her opinion. she nodded wisely and smiled reassuringly. "girl notions--that's all. don't worry over the foibles of growing girls. it's one thing today and something else tomorrow." the guardian was not so easily reassured. "but robin isn't like other girls--" he began, with a disturbing recollection of robin's highhandedness in engaging a companion. "tush! bosh!" miss effie would not let him go on. "girls are all alike under their skins. this poor kiddie's been starved for nice things and her sudden good fortune's gone to her head. she doesn't know the value of money, either; what'd seem big to her would be carfare for you. give her more to do. and she ought to know some young folks." now cornelius allendyce beamed fondly upon his sister. she _had_ comforted him. of course, robin's subconscious self was reaching out to touch the lives of others. in spite of their uncertain living she and jimmie were of a sociable sort--he ought not to have expected that she would be content in gray manor with no outside interests. "couldn't that tutor get up a party?" "that's a good idea, sister. i'll write to tubbs. probably the county's expecting something of the sort, anyway. i suppose it ought to be rather simple--she's so young and madame forsyth being away. i'll raise the child's allowance, too--let her spend it if she can, bless her heart." his mind once more quite at ease, cornelius allendyce put robin's letter into his pocket. he would write to her the next day and to percival tubbs. he ought to have consulted his sister sooner. well, a guardian learned something new every day, he told himself, with a smile. * * * * * no one had suspected the torment of thought that racked poor robin's head for the few days following the dinner-party. she had arisen that next morning with the firm resolve to "be" a forsyth, but she did not know just what she ought to do first and there was no one to tell her. beryl was no more sympathetic than she had been the night before and had answered her persistent questioning absentmindedly. however, unknowingly, she did give two helpful hints, upon which robin seized gratefully. "mother says that what wassumsic ought to have is a clubhouse like miss lewis' place in new york. mother took care of that, you know. miss lewis is a wonder. she always declared children need fun just the way they need milk and _she_ fixed it so that they got both." "oh, yes, there are ever so many boys and girls in wassumsic only they're mostly working in the mills. i'd have to work there myself only i've made dale believe that i can do something--else. if i ever started in the old mills i'd be like the others. that's the way--you begin and then you never know how to do anything different." "i'm glad you're not there. i'm like--dale. i know you'll be a wonderful violinist some day!" robin never failed to say what beryl wanted. beryl tossed her head. "i could have just settled down into a drudge, working all day and too tired at night to care what i did and saving just enough out of my pay envelope to buy me a hair-net but i wouldn't begin! i wouldn't! they can all call me proud and lazy but i'll show them--old henri jacques and martini himself said i would! but i've had to fight to make people believe me--and i s'pose i'll have to go on fighting." to the egotism of sixteen years these words sounded very grand; it stirred beryl to think she had fought for every advantage that was hers, to read the admiration in robin's eyes. she had no thought of disloyalty in claiming the credit that really belonged to the little mother who had dreamed the dream first for her girl and then, through years of work and self-denial, had lived for that dream to come true. after the arrival of the violin beryl promptly lost herself in a trance of rapture that left robin to her own pursuits. only once the quite human thought flashed to her mind that beryl might be a little bit interested in what _she_ wanted to do but she put it away as unworthy for, she told herself, beryl, destined one day to stand on a pedestal, could not be expected to bother with such every-day things as planning "fun" for the mill children. so robin left beryl with her beloved instrument and went alone to talk to mrs. lynch who was so startled at her unexpected coming that she kissed her and called her "little robin" before she realized what she was doing. that, and the fact that she found mrs. lynch working in the shed where big danny could not hear them, made it much easier for robin to talk and talk she did, so rapidly and so imploringly that mrs. moira had to interject more than once: "now wait a bit, dearie. what was that again?" robin wanted to know about how many mill children there were. "oh, bless the heart of you, it's no one but the doctor himself can tell you that! they slip in and out of the world as quiet like. but mrs. whaley says the school's so full that her tommy can only go afternoons." robin remembered beryl pointing out a dingy brick building as the schoolhouse. it had a play-yard enclosed on three sides with a high board fence, disfigured by much scrawling. it had seemed an ugly spot. she thought of that now. "and what do the girls--the girls like me--do?" "oh, they mostly work. after work? well, they help at home and do a bit of sewing maybe and some have beaux and they walk down to the drug store and hang around there visiting, though beryl doesn't. 'tisn't much of a life a girl in a place like this has," and mrs. moira's sigh was happily reminiscent of her own girlhood in open clean spaces, "it's old they grow before their time." "they don't have much fun, do they?" robin asked. mrs. lynch looked at her curiously. "fun? they work so hard that they haven't the gumption to start the fun. but it's so big the world is, miss robin, that it can't all be rosy. sure, there has to be some dark corners." "mrs. lynch, if--if--someone started the fun for the girls--would they like it?" "why, what's on your mind, dearie? the likes of you worryin' your little head over things you don't know anything about!" robin could have cried with vexation. she _must_ make mrs. lynch understand her--mrs. lynch was her one hope. she gave a little stamp of her foot as she burst out: "i'm little but that's no reason i can't think of things. i'm fifteen. dale said that the forsyth's didn't care and they ought to care--and i'm a forsyth. i want to know everyone in the mill neighborhood and how they live and what they do. and i want them to have--fun. beryl said your miss lewis said everyone ought to have fun. i--i don't know just how to begin--but i'm going to." mrs. moira patted her hand. to herself she was saying: "the blessed heart of her, she doesn't even know what she's talking about, poor lamb," but aloud: "that you shall and if i can help you, i will." robin's eyes glowed. "oh, _thank_ you. you don't know how hard it is for me to think just what to do. lovely plans keep popping into my head and then i think maybe they're silly and i can't tell about them--i just have to feel them. i'd like to begin with the little children. if my guardian says we may, can't we open that old cottage down by the bridge and make it into a--a sort of play-house? there could be a play-yard and next spring we could make gardens and we could fix one room up with pretty pictures and have books and games--and a fireplace and window-seats. oh, _does_ that sound silly?" robin brought her enthusiasm to an abrupt, imploring finish. "dearie me--no." there were no reserves in mrs. moira's approval. with an imagination as quick as robin's she saw the old cottage--it was a charming old house, snuggled under elms, half-covered in summer with rambling vines and pink blossoms--alive with romping, happy-voiced children, some poring over pretty picture-books, others listening to a story, some working in a garden--some just tumbling about on the soft grass in a pure exuberance of youthful joy. "we'll call it the house of laughter. i always think of names before anything else. and maybe, some day, the older girls--girls like me--will use it, too. i'd like to begin by knowing little susy castle." mrs. lynch promised to take her the next day to the old village where susy lived. "i'll come down right after our school work is over. beryl won't mind because she'll want to practice. and, please, mrs. lynch, don't tell dale, will you?" mrs. lynch demurred at this, for already she had been looking forward to telling dale about robin and her plans. but robin stood firm. "you see i may spoil everything and he'd think i was just stupid. i don't want him to know--yet." robin walked back to the manor with a light heart. her world that had always seemed so small, bounded on its every side by jimmie, now suddenly assumed limitless proportions and beautiful possibilities. there was so much to be done and so much to think about. tomorrow she would see susy castle; maybe other boys and girls. lights were twinkling from some of the windows of the manor. robin paused for a moment at the bottom of the long ascent to "love" the manor in its purple cloak of gathering dusk. that first forsyth who had broken ground for this gray pile had chosen well; the hill upon which the house had been built stood apart from the other hills, loftily commanding the village and valley. "it looks just like a grand old lady holding off her skirts so's not to touch anything," robin thought, now, whimsically. as though to crown her day's progress toward "being" a forsyth, robin found a letter from her guardian awaiting her. cornelius allendyce had written it keeping in mind his sister's advice not to notice a girl's "foibles"--"it's one thing today and another tomorrow." "... i am delighted that you are happy and finding so much to occupy your time. do not worry about your lessons. not all knowledge is confined within the covers of school books. (he had read that somewhere and thought it came in very pat, now.) how about some sort of a party. you ought to know the people of the country before the winter sets in. think it over and decide what you want. i will double your allowance if you haven't enough. if you need a club to make you happy, help yourself. don't worry about the mills--let norris do that. i'll run up to wassumsic very soon and answer as many questions as you may wish to ask. until then, i am devotedly yours, cornelius allendyce." "beryl--read this! i may use that old cottage. i believe my guardian'll do everything i ask when he understands. he's a _dear_!" beryl came slowly down from her "clouds." "robin--listen to _this_ vibrato!" chapter xiii susy castle the forsyth mills had built wassumsic--in truth, wassumsic _was_ the forsyth's mills. it had had its beginning in that first small mill where the first forsyth worked in his shirt-sleeves; a cluster of houses had sprung up close to the river, a store, more houses, more stores, a tavern, a church, a school. and as the mills grew, so grew the village. for themselves the forsyth family had built the stone house on the hill, that looked, indeed, like a grand old woman holding off her skirts from contamination. and that lofty apartness had always been the attitude of the forsyth family to the workaday life in the village. the growth of the village had been toward the railroad so that the first mill houses had been left by themselves "up the river" and were commonly known as the "old village." they were so old that they were not worth keeping in repair and so close to the river that they were damp the year round and for these very good reasons were offered to the mill workers at a low rental. many of the mill workers--such as dale--looked upon them as a disgrace to the mills and felt a hot anger in their hearts when they thought of them--but unfortunates like the castles were glad to move into the worst of them. the short walk from the mills to the old village skirted the river and was overhung with a double row of willows which, on this wintry day, cast long purple shadows. robin, walking along it with mrs. lynch, thought it lovely and solemn--like a cathedral aisle. but when they stopped before a low cottage, one window nailed across with boards where the panes were missing, the front door propped in place by a rotting rail tie, tin cans and frozen refuse littering the strip of yard, and mrs. lynch said "this is the house," she wanted to cry out in protest at the ugliness. they had to pick their way around to a back door upon which mrs. lynch knocked. several moments elapsed before the door swung back a little way, a round black eye peered at them cautiously, and a shrill voice piped "whachy'want?" "i s'pose that's susy," thought robin, her heart skipping a beat with a terror of shyness. mrs. lynch's pleasant: "we want to see granny," admitted them. robin, blinded for the first moment of coming into the darkness of the room from the bright sunshine outside, stumbled over a chair and in her confusion mumbled some incoherent answer to the shrill cackle of welcome that came from the shrunken bit of humanity bending over a small stove. "poor granny doesn't understand who you are," explained mrs. lynch, in an apologetic whisper, touching her head significantly. "come here, susy," and she motioned the staring child to her. susy approached with the hang-back step of a child or a dog not always certain of what he may get but mrs. lynch magically produced a round cookie, fat with currants, and susy sprang at her with a quick leap. the room was heavy with stale air and bare of any comforts. a tattered first reader lay on the greasy floor, unwashed dishes cluttered the bare pine table, on every available shelf and in every corner were piled old cans and bottles and half-filled paper bags. on a what-not in the corner a faded bunch of pink paper roses drooped over a cracked vase. the wallpaper, its ugly pattern mercifully faded, was fantastically streaked from the dampness, in one corner the ceiling plaster had fallen and newspapers had been tacked over the laths to keep out the cold. a sickening revulsion, a longing to escape into the sweet crisp air swept robin. she shrank away into a corner for fear the dreadful old granny might touch her. but she _must_ say something! she had come here for a purpose--to know susy. at that moment susy's voice pealed out in a merry, piping laugh--because she had put her small finger into her cookie and pulled out a fat round currant! and something in the laugh touched the spark to the mothering instinct strong in robin's young heart--the mothering instinct that had caused her bitter anguish over cynthia's loss, that had taught her how to care for her jimmie, and had given her strength to run away from her jimmie that he might have his "chance." she forgot the dirty surroundings, the old granny in her rags and her crown of wispy gray hair, she saw only the child's face, lightened with joy, and laughed with susy as susy held out the currant on the end of an uplifted--and very dirty--finger. the ice broken, susy made friends quickly. she leaned her thin little self against robin's knee and stared with rapture into robin's face. like granny she could not seem to realize that robin was a forsyth; to her she was "a big girl" and big girls did not come to the house now that sarah had died. she timidly touched robin's soft coat sleeve with a rough, sticky hand and poked at the bright buttons of robin's blouse, her eyes round with wonder. afterward, after robin and mrs. lynch had, with some difficulty, broken away from susy's clinging and granny's childish lamentations, and were walking back through the "cathedral aisle" robin gave herself a little shake as though to rouse herself from some nightmare. "oh, mrs. lynch, it's dreadful!" "what, dearie?" mrs. lynch had been thinking that granny castle couldn't be one of the castle's of her old-country county. "that place. are they all like that? how can they live?" mrs. lynch hesitated a moment and there was a perceptible tightening of her tender lips. "well, dearie, people _have_ to live--life goes on in spite of things. maybe poor old granny wishes real often it'd been her that had been taken instead of that poor sarah. things weren't so bad for them when sarah lived--they say. she was an up-and-doing girl and kept things nice though she had to work hard to do it, poor little thing. it's in the hospital that old woman should be with some one to wait on her and keep her warm. no one but little susy--" "i forgot all i'd planned to say! susy looked so cold, mrs. lynch. i hated my nice warm clothes." "oh, susy was warm enough. she's a bright child, she is. when she's a bit older things will ease up." robin remembered what beryl had said of the girls in wassumsic having nothing else to do but go into the mills. susy would grow older and take sarah's place. but what if she didn't want to? what happened to the "big girls" who didn't want to go into the mills? robin could hear beryl's contemptuous: "why they haven't a chance in the world." well, anyway, someone could make the mills so nice that the girls would _want_ to work in them. "i wish i were big!" cried robin with such passion that mrs. lynch, not knowing her train of thought, had a sudden qualm at taking a sensitive little thing like miss robin to poor old granny castle's. "now, dearie, don't you worry. things come out somehow--in the next world maybe for the granny castles, but they do. now that idea of yours of fixing that cottage--" "oh, i forgot to tell you! my guardian says i may. at least he said that if i wanted a club, to help myself, and that must mean he consents. he's a dear. have you time to go there with me now and just peek into it? i'm sure we can get in." "i'll take the time," cried mrs. moira with an interest as eager as robin's. "i'll just drop in and tell my danny when we go past--it's so lonesome he gets when i'm slow coming." robin's house of laughter looked a little deserted standing alone in the shadow of the hillside, gaunt branches creaking over its low roof, the ends of the trailing vines whipping restlessly against the gray clapboards. but robin and mrs. lynch saw it as they wanted it to be--neatly painted, its windows curtained, its yard trimmed, its doorstep dignified by a broad inviting step, and flanked by a trellis for the rambling rose vine. the door opened for them in the most promising way and they tiptoed into a big bare room with two windows at one end looking out over the hills and river. "isn't this nice?" cried robin in delighted staccato. "it's just made for what we want. look--a fireplace!" to be sure, it was nothing more than a gap in the wall. "and these darling windows. we can put a seat way across, all comfy." she promptly saw, in her mind, susy curled upon it with a beautiful picture book and a handful of cookies. "oh, let's see the rest. look, a cunning kitchen. the children can play cooking. and this room--what can we use this room for?" mrs. lynch was thinking rapidly. because of her experience with miss lewis she saw possibilities way beyond robin's eager planning--class rooms where the older girls could learn other trades--a domestic science class in the kitchen for the mothers--a sewing room, a library full of instructive and entertaining books, and the big living room where the children could gather after school hours, and the men and women and big boys and girls in the evening. and a playground outside--and gardens. "can't we fix it up right away?" robin's eager questioning brought her sharply out of her dream to a practical realization that all the house of laughter had as endowment was an unselfish girl's enthusiasm. "harkness will help if i ask him and maybe williams, too. and mrs. williams." "it's quite tidy for standing empty so long," mused mrs. lynch, sweeping the bare rooms with an appraising eye. "that stove's good as new under the rust." "oh, you _will_ help, won't you? i can't do anything without you." "that i will, miss robin." mrs. moira promised with no thought of the added tax it must be on her energy. "it's a beginning everything has to have and you get your harkness man and some brooms and some soap and we'll have your little house of laughter ready to begin in no time." a half hour later robin burst upon beryl absorbed in her practicing. "oh, _please_ listen," she cried and without waiting for encouragement poured out her precious plans. beryl obediently listened but with an odd surprise tugging at her attentiveness--this robin seemed different, full of a fire that was quite new, and all over fixing up that old place for the mill kids. to beryl, wrapped in her own precious ambition, that seemed a ridiculous waste of energy. however she concealed her scorn, affected a lively interest and put in a few helpful suggestions. "mr. tubbs has been hunting for you," she suddenly informed robin. "i heard him talking to harkness about a party. your guardian's written to him, i guess." "oh, _dear_!" cried robin, in dismay. she remembered what mr. allendyce had written to her. a party would be terrible! "i should think you'd think it was fun--and with all your pretty clothes. it's exciting meeting people, too. if _i_ were you--" beryl simply wouldn't finish--there were so many things she would do if she were gordon forsyth, she could not begin to name them. robin's doleful face betrayed her state of mind. "what will i have to do?" "that depends upon what kind of a party it is." beryl felt flattered that robin should appeal to her. "and i should think you'd have the say. _i_ certainly would. receptions are stiff and dinners aren't much fun. i think a dance--" "but i can't dance. and i never went to a young party in my life!" "well, you're gordon forsyth, now, and you'll have to do lots of things you never did before," reminded beryl, a comical sternness edging her voice. an hour before, in her empty house of laughter, poor robin had thrilled at the thought of "being" a forsyth; now, alas, her heart sank to her boots under the weight of these new obligations she must face. nor was she cheered when mr. tubbs found her and laid his plans before her. mr. tubbs, short of memory, always carried his thoughts on neat little slips of paper over-written with memoranda. he fluttered some of these now before robin's eyes and robin saw that they contained lists of names. "a party--your guardian is quite right--we were remiss--of course madame would have wished--in the old days--it must be at least an at-home--yes, an at-home--i have found the cards of the best people of the county in madame's desk--harkness will know who of them have died--yes, an at-home, say from four to seven--mr. allendyce and his sister will come to help you receive--i will talk to budge--yes--" mr. tubbs rarely finished a sentence. he always spoke as though he were thinking memoranda aloud, and punctuated his words with little tugs at his silky van dyke beard. robin had a rebellious impulse to snatch the fluttering lists from his long fingers and tear the "best people of the county" into tiny bits but she remembered what beryl had said about a forsyth having to do many things, smothered a sigh, and said meekly: "i don't know much about parties." "my dear young lady, experience will teach you. they are important--yes, for one of your station--important as your books. i will see budge--about the date--yes." "old grandmother!" cried beryl, as mr. tubbs went off in search of the housekeeper. "an at-home!" she mimicked his precise tones. "of all the tiresome things. he'll invite a lot of doddering old women who'll come and look you over _this_ way!" beryl lifted an imaginary lorgnette to her eyes. "why didn't you say you'd like a regular party and just have young people--there's a boys' school only ten miles from here and it would have been such fun. of course i couldn't have come down but i could watch you--" "beryl lynch, you _are_ coming down or i won't stir one foot. you shall pick out one of my dresses and we'll make it longer or something. and i think a party with boys i don't know would be lots more terrible than an at-home. all i hope is that he makes the date soon so that it will be over with." percival tubbs, inwardly much annoyed at having the peaceful routine of his days at the manor thus disturbed, was as anxious as robin to have the party over with. after due deliberation with mrs. budge he fixed the date for a day two weeks ahead. mrs. budge insisted she needed that much time to make "things look like anything." budge and harkness welcomed the party as a beginning of the "change" they had prayed might come to gray manor. "it'll be some'at like old times," harkness had declared. "that chit won't look like much," (poor budge had not yet forgiven robin for being a girl) "but it'll make talk if she ain't shown. talk enough for madame going away like she did. i've half a mind to get out the gold plate. that old mis' crosswaithe from sharon'll be over here the first of any, peeking around and she ain't going to see how things are going to sixes and sevens. no one else ain't either or my name ain't hannah budge. it ain't." and budge squared her shoulders as a challenge to an inquisitive world. harkness, while he anxiously watched the weather, grew loquacious over the old times. "this house has known great parties, missy," he told robin. "the best lydies from miles 'round coming in their carriages. the crosswaithes, from sharon, before old mr. crosswaithe died. and the cullens and the grangers--she as was the daughter of a gov'nor. the manor was the finest place in the county and things were done right here and as gay as could be." he launched forth on a long description of christopher the third's eighteenth birthday party. "he come up from school, missy, with his friends and the young lydies come from new york and some from these parts and the house was as gay, what with flowers and palms and music and their talk. and the young master's table was laid in the conservatory--and the olders sat in the dining-room and held come from new york--the best caterer, missy--" robin and beryl listened with breathless interest--robin with a moment's vision of that handsome lad laughing and talking with the "young lydies from new york." how dreadful, she thought, that only a few months after that brilliant affair he should have been killed--he would have been about twenty-four, now--and would have been such a splendid forsyth, while she was so small and insignificant. "these automobiles are all very well, missy, but if it snows--" and harkness scowled through the window at the darkening sky. "do you mean, if it snows--no one will come?" "i'm not thinking that, missy, but not so many--the grangers and their young people." robin refrained from saying she hoped it _would_ snow, for if harkness and budge enjoyed fussing over the dreadful party she did not want to spoil their anticipation. the entire house seemed ridiculously astir over the approaching event; extra help came from the village, the air throbbed with the hum of vacuum cleaners, chairs and tables were beaten with a frenzied thoroughness, tables polished, everything dusted. certainly, no one _was_ going to see that things were going to sixes and sevens! robin and beryl busied themselves making over one of robin's dresses for beryl, a process to which beryl consented only after a stormy scene and tears on robin's part. robin's plans for her house of laughter had to be tucked away for the time, and when she sighed now and then over her ripping and stitching it was because she'd so much rather be making frilly, crispy curtains for those little windows. chapter xiv a gift to the queen by no means had the girls forgotten their dowager queen of altruria. they talked of her often; beryl usually in a speculative vein. had she brought the court jewels with her? did that dreadful brina kneel on one knee and kiss the hem of her garment? did she ever wear her crown? royalty meant much more to beryl than it did to robin, for beryl attached to it a personal interest. would she not, as sure as anything, sometime play before crowned heads by royal command? sometimes, lying wide-eyed in the dark, she pictured herself at such a moment, gorgeously gowned, and delightfully disdainful of the bejeweled, becrowned, stately kings and queens and little princelings, dukes and duchesses and earls and countesses, all hanging on the exquisite notes she drew from her strings. after she finished they would forget their crowns and things and fall upon her in a sort of humble adoration. beryl shivered exquisitely, she could make the picture so very real! now, when she dreamed, the queens and duchesses looked like the mysterious mistress of the house by the rushing water. robin thought of their dowager queen of altruria as perhaps being a little lonely, sometimes. with everyone, now, watching the weather in anxious dread of a snowstorm, it occurred to her that such a storm would shut the little house near the rushing water off from the world. "beryl, let's go and see our dowager! it may be the last time we can until spring. i'd like to take her something, too. something christmasy. christmas is only two weeks off and think how dreadful to spend christmas all by yourself." beryl thought both the visit and the gift a fine idea and set her wits to working to contrive an offering suitable for one of the dowager's station in life. she suggested helping themselves to what the manor had to offer, for, certainly, robin, being a forsyth, had such a "right." "flowers and fruit and maybe a book. it would never be missed and you could take one of these that hasn't anything written in the front. see, here's a collection of dante's poems--it's as good as new. and who'd ever want it with all these other books here?" beryl's reasoning seemed logical and robin put aside a tiny doubt she had as to her right to "help herself" to even a very small volume. some day she could explain to her aunt mathilde that she had given it to a nice old lady who lived all alone. the girls filled a huge basket with luscious fruit from budge's storehouse, and gay flowers from the conservatory, and concealed the little book under the bright foliage. they decided, after much deliberation, to let williams into their secret, and show him their offering, so that he would surely consent to drive them to rushing waters. "we'll just about get it in before the snow comes," agreed williams, scanning the sky with that anxiety to which robin had grown very familiar. "a queen, you say? well, what do you think of that!" he laughed uproariously. "we're not exactly _sure_, but we have our suspicions," corrected beryl in a freezing tone. "and please don't tell a soul because we really have no right to force ourselves on her if she wants to hide away," begged robin. williams promised with a chuckle. "funny kids," he said to himself, enjoying, nevertheless, the adventure. "i'll do the sleuth stuff in the corner store while you two are interviewing the duchess--i beg pardon, the queen." the girls left williams, as he suggested, at the little store, while they, tugging their basket between them, found and followed the path by the rushing water. it was as alluring as ever--berries still clung to the undergrowth, gleaming red against the dark of the fir trees; the dead leaves underfoot crackled softly as though protesting their intrusion; there was a whirring of wings and always the rush of the water. "i'd forgotten how spooky it was," cried beryl, drawing in her breath. "i hope she won't be sorry we came." this time robin knocked. as before, brina opened the door a little way. when she saw the two girls she scowled, but stepped backward, announcing their presence in crisp german. the mistress of the house rose a little hastily from the table before which she was sitting. she was dressed, now, in a warm, trailing robe of soft velvet, a band of ermine circling her neck and crossing over her breast, where it was held in place by a brooch of flashing gems. at sight of her visitors her face softened from haughty surprise to a resigned amusement. robin broke the silence. "may we come in? we thought we'd like--that maybe you'd like--" oh, it was dreadful to know what to say, when all the time you were thinking she really was a queen! "you have stumbled upon my little house again? come in and sit down. brina and i do not often have callers; you must pardon us if, perhaps, we are a little awkward in our hospitality. cæsar, lie down _he_ is glad to see you! i have been looking over a book of colored prints of old cathedrals. would you like to pull your chairs up to the table and look at them with me?" beryl blinked knowingly at robin as much as to say: "isn't that just what an exiled queen would be doing?" the prints were rare and exceedingly lovely and robin noticed that they had come from a new york gallery. their hostess told them of some of the quaint cathedral towns and the stories of the cathedrals themselves. robin, who had an inherited appreciation of beauty, listened eagerly, putting in now and then a question or a statement of such intelligence that the "dowager queen" studied her with interest. beryl, thrilled by the ermine and the gleaming brooch, did not care a fig about the cathedrals but sat back in a rapture of speculation. there seemed something in the stately head with its crown of white hair, vaguely, tantalizingly familiar; she must have seen pictures of the queen of altruria somewhere. she watched each gesture and fitted it to her dream. this queen who seemed really truly friendly now and almost human, might go back some day to altruria, wherever that was, and of course, when _she_ toured europe, or maybe even when she was there studying, she could go and stay at the palace just like a relative. it would be fun to visit in a palace and smile at all the fuss and crowns and things because you were an american and didn't believe in them. "oh, we forgot our basket!" cried robin, suddenly darting to the door where brina had, with a sniff, dropped their precious offering. "we brought these--for a christmas greeting." "they are lovely," cried the "queen" with sincere delight, her eyes drinking in hungrily the beauty of the exotic blossoms--for robin and beryl had helped themselves to the best the manor had. "and fruit--ah, brina's heart will rejoice. what is this?" her slender, shapely hands fussed over the wrappings of the book, while robin and beryl watched. "why--" the queen turned the book over and over, her face bent so that its expression was hidden. the girls' delight gave way, now, to concern--the queen held the book so long and with such curious intentness that they wondered, anxiously, if there were anything about dante's verses displeasing to a queen of altruria. "you never _can_ tell about those jealous kingdoms over there!" beryl said afterwards. after their hostess had "most worn the book out staring at it" she lifted her eyes and fixed a curious gaze upon her visitors. "this is a rare little treasure," she said in a queer tone. "and may i not know how it came into your possession--and who you are?" robin's heart jumped into her throat. what had they done? it had looked like any book except that the leather of the binding seemed softer than most books and smelled very nice and there were beautiful colored illustrations inside--but the queen said it was a rare book and was wondering where they had gotten it. perhaps they had helped themselves to the manor's most precious book! she gulped, looked frantically at beryl, who, guessing her intention, gave violent signs of warning, to which she paid no heed. "why, i'm robin forsyth, and this is beryl lynch who lives with me at the manor. we took the book from the library there because there are ever and ever so many, and we thought you might be lonely--when winter comes--and enjoy it." "you are robin forsyth?" the old lady said the words slowly. "my real name is gordon forsyth, but i've always been called red-robin. i'm living at gray manor now--over in wassumsic. my father--he's not one of the rich forsyths, you see--is an artist and he's travelling with mr. tony earle, who writes, you know. i wish you could come to the manor." robin's heart was light now, having, by confession, cleared itself of its moment's dread, and she rattled on, quite oblivious to beryl's scowl and the queen's searching scrutiny. "it's lovely and old. madame forsyth, my great-aunt, isn't there, though--at least now. she's--she's travelling. we have a tutor and i have a guardian who lets me do about what i please. you see, first my aunt and my guardian thought i was a boy--the forsyths have always _been_ boys; and it was a dreadful shock, i guess, when my guardian found out i was a girl--and such a small girl--and lame, too. i think, though, he's forgotten that, now. but the housekeeper never _will_ forgive me. and my great-aunt doesn't know, yet. i wish for her sake, i could change myself into a handsome young man like young christopher forsyth who died--but i can't, so i'm just going to be as good a forsyth as i can and make up to them all for--being a girl." "whom do you mean--'them all?'" asked the queen. she had dropped into a chair and turned her head toward the fire, in very much the same attitude she had held upon their first visit. robin, encouraged, squatted on the hearth rug, the big dog beside her, and clasped her hands over her knee. "oh, i don't mean just madame forsyth and my guardian, though i don't think he cares, now, or that cross old housekeeper; i mean--all the mill people. you see the mills have grown very fast and there are lots and lots of people working in them, but mr. norris, he's the superintendent, is very old-fashioned and he'll never improve things." robin racked her brains to recall dale's and adam kraus' exact words. "he's letting the people live in awful houses and they don't have any fun or--or anything. and dale--he's beryl's brother--says they'd work much better if they had everything nice. _he_ says the forsyths don't care, that they just think of the mill people as parts of a machine to make money for them, and not as human beings. why, there was a girl, sarah castle--" and robin, her tongue loosed, told eloquently of sarah castle and of susy and granny and the old cottage "up the river," and then--because it made it seem so real to tell about it--of her house of laughter. "of course," she finished, "if i were a boy i could do much more--or even if i were big. you see, there's been what mr. harkness calls a gloom over the manor for a long time; and my great-aunt's been so sad over that that she couldn't think of anything else--and maybe i'll be doing something if i just show the mill people that a forsyth, even if she's only a girl, _does_ care--a little bit. don't you think so?" at her appeal the dowager queen turned such a haughty face upon her and answered in such a cold voice: "i'm sure i do not know," that robin turned crimson with embarrassment. of course, a queen could not even be remotely interested in the manor and the mills--especially if she had to worry over a whole kingdom herself. she had been silly to rattle on the way she had! brina, quite unknowingly, came to the rescue with a tray of cakes and a pot of cocoa. their hostess, her annoyance put aside, smiled graciously again, and poured the cocoa into little cups while the firelight flashed from the brooch on her dress. brina went back and forth with heavy tread, sullenly watchful of her mistress' smallest need. the girls sat close to the table upon which still lay the book of cathedral prints and sipped their cocoa and ate their cakes. the wintry sun shone in through the curtained windows, giving the room, with its pale glow, a melancholy cheerfulness. "must you really go?" asked their hostess, politely, when, a half-hour later, robin and beryl exclaimed at the lateness of the hour. "why, we never meant to stay so long! it has been so nice." robin wondered, if she held out her hand, would the queen take it? she ventured it with such a shy, appealing movement that the old lady clasped it in hers, then dropped it abruptly, as though annoyed by her own impulsiveness. "the afternoon has passed very pleasantly for me." the queen's voice was measuredly polite. "i thank you for thinking of me--in my out-of-the-way corner, and bringing me such lovely gifts." her eyes turned from the flowers which brina had put in a squat pewter pitcher to the book which lay on the table. then she turned to robin and levelled a glance upon her which held a queer challenge. "if you succeed--with your--what did you call it--house of laughter, let me know, sometime. i shall be most interested in your experiment." "then she _was_ listening," thought robin, wondering at the bitter tone in the woman's voice. "maybe she's so lonely and so unhappy she hates to think of laughter." "well, red-robin forsyth, you certainly did spill everything you knew and a lot more besides," cried beryl, when the two were alone. "as if a queen cared a fig! i tried to head you off a couple of times." beryl laughed scornfully. "it was _funny_!" robin still smarted from her recent embarrassment; she did not relish beryl's laughing at her. "we had to talk about something," she cried in defence. "well, if you'd given me a chance i'd have talked about things that are happening in europe. sort of led her on, you know, so's maybe she'd give herself away. _that's_ what _i_ wanted--to find out something about _her_ instead of telling all about ourselves. here she knows everything about you and you notice she didn't say one word about herself! the whole afternoon's wasted and we might as well not've gone at all. i wanted to get something on her so's maybe--some day--" disgusted, beryl broke off abruptly, quickening her step to show her companion her displeasure. robin limped in silence after her; she _had_ talked too much, the queen was probably laughing at her now--and beryl was angry and disgusted. beryl forgot her moment's displeasure, however, when williams imparted to them the "dope" he had on the "queen-dame," gleaned from the old storekeeper. "old si says the 'queer party' bought that house off up there last fall suddenly and moved up from somewhere or t'other with a truck load of stuff. the big-gun, beg pardon, i mean the queen, came herself, with some sort of a body-guard in an enclosed car, that went away after it'd landed them in the woods. si's sore, i suppose, because they get 'their vittles sent up from new york'--though i don't know as i blame them from what i saw in his store. says the 'queer party' walks through the village sometimes, but she's always with her body-guard and a big dog, and wears a heavy veil 'like them furrin' women'." williams chuckled as he tried to give to his little account the touches si had put into it. beryl caught robin's hand in an ecstasy of delight. "there. _that_ settles it as sure as anything. i'd like to write to somebody in washington and tell what we know and maybe we'd get a reward. royalty most always has a price on its head," beryl finished grandly. robin wanted to protest at the thought of there being a price on that snow-white head, but not certain as to how far she had been restored in beryl's favor, she refrained, and merely smiled in assent to beryl's excitement. "we've got to hurry back if we beat that cloud yonder," declared williams, nodding toward a gathering bank of dark clouds in the western sky, and the mention of snow brought back to the girls the approaching party. it did snow--long before williams reached the manor, so that the car was covered; throughout the dinner harkness went again and again to the window to peer out, always turning back with the worried announcement: "it's still coming down." and at bedtime robin, peeping out, saw a world blanketed white. even mr. tubbs laid his neuralgic head upon his soft pillow with the regretful thought: "now the grangers cannot come. a pity. yes." chapter xv the party the household at gray manor looked upon the heavy fall of snow with varying emotions. harkness lamented loudly: "it might 'a held off for missy's party. if it was the old days--well, the county lydies could a' come in their sleighs. all right as far as the post road goes, but the grangers--" downstairs budge rejoiced that the grangers might not come. "eyes like a ferret that woman has and like as not she never got over our boy's going. she'd say things _was_ going to sixes and sevens, with a little thing no bigger'n a penny in our boy's shoes--she would. but i'd like to know who ever'll eat all the stuff i'm fixing!" the house cleaned to a fine polish from attic to cellar, mrs. budge had turned her attention most generously to the food. "why does everyone care about mrs. granger?" asked robin, of harkness, when even percival tubbs regretted, with a sigh, that mrs. granger might not find it possible to come. "well, you might say she's next lydy to madame herself," explained harkness. "in the old days her people and the manor people were thick like and visited backward and forward. and there was talk of young christopher some day marrying the young lydy, miss alicia. i hear tell his death was a sad blow to them. they haven't been coming much to the manor since, but we laid it to madame's queer ways and the gloom." "will the others be able to come? won't mrs. budge have _lots_ too much food?" "well, you might say most will make it, for they keep the post roads open. we'll hope for the best, missy," he added, interpreting robin's anxious questioning as an expression of disappointment. but robin's sudden concern over the party had nothing to do with the coming of mrs. granger or anyone else. as she had stood in the window, her nose flattened against the pane, staring out at the snowy slopes, she had been suddenly inspired by a beautiful plan. she turned to beryl. "can something be sent up from new york in a day?" "depends." beryl answered shortly. "what?" with one of the lightning-like decisions, characteristic of her, robin decided not to take beryl into her confidence--just yet. "oh, i was thinking. something about my party. i'll tell you--later." beryl stared at robin a little suspiciously--robin looked queer, all-tight-inside, as though she'd made up her mind to do something. it was the new robin again. oh, well, if she didn't want to tell-- after luncheon robin donned her warm outer garments and slipped out of the house while beryl was practicing. to carry out her plan, now fully grown, she must send a telegram and see mrs. lynch. two hours later, flushed and excited, she hunted down mrs. budge, whom she found mixing savory concoctions in a huge bowl. "m'm, how good things smell," she began, to break down the hostility she saw in budge's eye, "is that for the party?" "'s going to be," and budge stirred more vigorously than ever. "mrs. budge, will there be enough food for--some extra ones--i've invited or i'm--going to invite?" budge dropped her spoon. "well, no one ever went hungry in _this_ house," she answered crisply. "may i ask who _your_ guests are?" budge permitted herself the pleasure of a meaning inflection on the "your." "well, i'm not quite sure--yet, only i wanted to know about the food--" robin retreated step by step toward the door, her limp exaggerated by the movement. "i'm waiting for word from my guardian." "_robin_! humph," budge flung at the door as it closed upon the girl. "if it wasn't that this house depended on me i'd drop my spoon and walk out this minit, i would, or my name ain't hannah budge. guests! like as not some of these mill truck." more than the snowstorm threatened the success of robin's "at-home." for cornelius allendyce was suddenly prostrated by a bad attack of sciatica. and his sister declared she could not leave him; at such times only her patient and faithful ministrations eased his intense suffering. "i'll telephone to wassumsic right away and don't you worry," she begged of him, "they'll get along somehow or other." "they'll have to," the guardian growled, between groans. but before miss effie could telephone, robin's telegram came. cornelius allendyce opened it with indifferent fingers, read it, then rose upright with such suddenness that a loud cry of pain burst from him. "will you listen to this? that child wants me to express fifty sleds to the manor, at once! read it and see if i've gone crazy." "there, there, lie still, cornelius--i don't care if she wants fifty sleds or fifty hundred. send them to her and wait until you're well to find out if she coasted on all of them or wanted them for kindling wood. there--i knew it'd make your pain worse. wait--i'll warm this!" all solicitous, for her brother's face had twisted in agony, the sister dropped the telegram and busied herself over her patient. her advice seemed good. "well, send them. tell them to rush the order," he groaned, then gave himself over to his suffering with, somewhere back in his head, the thought that there was quite a bit more to being a guardian than he had calculated. so while harkness and budge and mrs. williams, pressed into service, made the old manor festive with flowers and pine boughs, robin completed the plans for her part of the party, and confided to beryl that fifty of the mill youngsters were coming to the manor to coast on the sloping hillside. "robin forsyth, what ever will they all say?" "who?" demanded robin, with aggravating innocence. "all the guests. why, robin, you're hopeless! you simply can't get it into your head that the forsyths are different from--the mill people." "they're not. and we haven't time to argue now. they're coming--a lot of them. your mother invited them for me through the school teacher--you see, there wasn't time for me to, because i didn't know where the younger children lived. my guardian has sent on the duckiest sleds--all red. williams brought them up and they're out in the garage. he's going to take charge of my part of the party." "does budge know?" robin hated to admit that she had been afraid to tell budge. she flushed ever so slightly. "n-no. at least i told her there were some extra coming. oh, beryl, _don't_ act as though you thought everything was going to be a failure. i thought--as long as there was going to be this stupid old reception here and lots of nice food, it was the _only_ time to have a party for the kiddies, for budge would never cook a crumb if it were just for them. i wish my guardian were here--i _know_ he'd understand." "where are they going to eat?" "the ladies? oh, the children. i've told harkness to put a table in the conservatory and make it christmasy." "you're clever, robin. harkness will do it for you--but, oh, he'll hate it; i can hear him--'things aren't like they used to be.' as my father'd say-you're killing the goose that lays the golden egg, all righto. budge will tell madame, sure's anything." "what do you mean?" asked robin quietly, a little gleam in her eyes. "why, stupid, the forsyths aren't going to stand for that sort of thing. they'll send you back--" "beryl, do you think i'm staying here for the forsyth money--or--or care about it? i came here so that jimmie could go away without worrying about me. when he comes home i shall go back to him, of course." "leave gray manor?" beryl's voice rang incredulously. "of course. i like it here and there are lots of things i want to do, but when jimmie comes back--if he wants me--" her voice trembled. beryl stared at robin as though she saw a strange creature in the familiar guise. "you _are_ the queerest girl. you don't seem to care for the things money can get for you!" she had to pause, to pick her words. "why, if _i_ had the chance--all the advantages, and taking lovely trips, and the fun. you could go to one of these girls' schools and play tennis and golf and ride horseback! and always have pretty clothes!" the bitter edge to beryl's voice betrayed how much she would like these things. "would you desert your mother and--and dale for things like that? would you?" in her relentless dreaming, in her sturdy ambitions, beryl had never put such a question to herself. she had simply never seen them in her picture. she evaded a direct answer now. "they'd want me to!" "of course they would. mothers and fathers are like that. just unselfish. but you wouldn't give your mother up for anything. i know you wouldn't." beryl turned away from robin's searching eyes. in her innermost heart--an honest heart it was--she was not quite sure; her life had been different from robin's, she had been taught to want fine things and go straight for them; so had dale. if getting them meant sacrificing sentiment--well, she'd do it. so, perhaps, would dale (and robin thought dale perfect). but she couldn't make robin understand because robin had never wanted anything big--beryl always fell back upon this comforting thought. "well, you'd better get harkness in line and don't get so interested in your kids that you forget mrs. granger. she _is_ coming--they telephoned that the road is open." robin dropped an impulsive kiss on the top of beryl's head to show her that, no matter how much they disagreed, they were good friends, and went off in search of harkness. the appointed hour for the reception found the manor and its servants ready. with myriad lights, gleaming from candles and chandeliers, reflecting in the polished surfaces of old wood and silver and bronze, the air sweet with the scent of pine and flowers, the old manor had something of the brilliancy of other days. but, in sad contrast to the old days, now poor budge watched the extra help from the village with a dour and suspicious eye and harkness, dignified in his faded livery, made the "extra" table in the conservatory as christmasy as he could, with a heart heavy with doubt as to the "fitness" of missy's whims. robin, in her madonna blue dress, looked very small in the stately drawing room. there percival tubbs patiently explained, for the hundredth time, with just what words she must greet her guests, as harkness announced them; and robin listened dutifully, with her thoughts on the hillside beyond the long windows where already red sleds were flying up and down the snowy slope and childish voices were lifting in glee. true to mrs. budge's predictions, mrs. crosswaithe, from sharon, arrived first. robin saw masses of velvet and plumes and a sharp, wizened face somewhere in the midst of it all. she forgot mr. tubbs' careful teaching, said "i'm pleased to know you," instead, and held out her hand to the tall, thin, mannishly dressed young woman behind mrs. crosswaithe, who, though robin did not know it, was mrs. crosswaithe's daughter. for an hour the guests arrived in as steady a stream as their high-powered cars could carry them through the heavy roads. the manor had not been opened like this for years and the "best people in the county" took advantage of the opportunity to look for signs of failing fortunes, to see the "girl" who had come to the manor, and to find out just where madame was travelling. thanks to budge's heroic work no one discovered any sign of change in the old house; their questioning only met with disappointment, and budge's food was of much more interest than the young heiress who, they decided, was a pretty little thing but much too small for her age. robin shook hands until her arm ached, mumbled the wrong thing most of the time which, however, did not seem to make any difference with anyone, and kept one eye longingly on the window, and one ear listening for the shouts outside which were growing louder and louder. she seized an opportunity to go to the window and watch, so that when the great mrs. granger arrived mr. tubbs had to, a little sharply, recall her to her duty. "isn't she--awful?" whispered robin to beryl, as mrs. granger, after condescendingly patting robin's hand, swept on. "she thinks _she's_ so grand, but she ought to see the queen!" which observation would have enraged mrs. granger, had she heard it, for she had felt particular satisfaction in her dress and hat, sent on, only the day before, from the most expensive shop in new york. "miss alicia didn't come--she's in california. say, robin, there's a granger boy, 'bout eighteen. maybe that's why my lady granger's so sweet to you." "silly!" robin flung at beryl in retort. "oh, dear, can't i go out to my own guests now?" robin and williams had planned that the children should be admitted to the conservatory through a side door, leaving their outer garments in a vestibule. so, when everything was in readiness for them, harkness gave the sign, and williams herded his noisy troupe to the house. many of the older guests had been present at that memorable birthday party on young christopher's eighteenth birthday and they recalled now, over their salad plates, the brilliancy of that affair and touched upon all that had happened since in the way of change. mrs. granger displayed much emotion. "_that_ made a picture i will never forget!" and she nodded toward the glass doors, curtained in soft silk, which led from the dining room to the conservatory and which harkness had carefully closed. "i wonder if i might just peep in? ah, the memories. my dear alicia and that handsome boy--" she touched a lacy handkerchief to her eyes. several who had overheard her followed mrs. granger to the closed doors and stood behind her as she opened them. and their eyes beheld a sight so different from that birthday party that they stepped back in amazement, mrs. granger lifting her lorgnette in trembling fingers. youngsters of every size and of every degree of greed crowded around the long table, the "christmasy" decoration of which had already been pulled to pieces by eager reaching hands. faces, still red from the crisp air and streaked where dirty coat sleeves had rubbed them, beamed across the heaping plates, busy fingers crammed away the goodies. one small boy half-lay across the table; another stood in his chair, his frayed woolen cap set rakishly back and over one ear. on each excited countenance a shadow of suspicion mingled with the joy, a fear that the same magic which had brought it might snatch all this strange and lovely fun away. harkness watched at one end of the table, williams at another. and in their midst sat robin. "well, i never!" murmured mrs. granger. her exclamation was drowned, however, in the babble of youthful sound let loose upon the "best people of the county" by the opening of the door. "miss gordon is going in for the pretty charity thing, is she?" all might have gone well even then--for harkness had a stern eye on everyone of robin's small guests--had not little susy seen her beloved "big girl" slip through the group at the big glass doors. susy was the youngest of the children there; she did not go to school regularly enough to feel at home with the others, she had refused to slide, and, at the table had not really begun to enjoy herself until robin had sat down next to her, put her arm around her and coaxed her to eat the food on the plate before her. the food had turned out to be very good and susy had crammed it down with her fingers, regardless of fork or spoon. now her "big girl" had slipped away, she was alone, that man at the end was staring at her, panic seized her, a mad longing to escape, anywhere--preferably back to the shelter of the "big girl's" friendly arm. she slid down from her seat, her eyes wildly sweeping the room; harkness, like an ogre, guarded one end of the table, williams' bulk stood between her and the outer door; there was only the one way, through the glass doors. head down, she ran swiftly the length of the conservatory and bolted into the little group of people watching from the dining room door. someone big blocked her way. with frightened hands she pushed at her. "want granny! _want granny!_ get 'way! uh-h-h!" "the dreadful little thing!" someone said. robin, hearing the shrill cry, rushed to the rescue, and, kneeling, gathered poor weeping susy into a close embrace. over the child's tousled head she smiled nervously at her staring guests. "poor little thing, she's shy!" then, feeling susy quivering in her clasp, she whispered something magical in her ears. it was only: "robin will keep tight hold of your hand, susy-girl, and you needn't be a bit frightened and by and by, if you're quiet, we'll fill a bag of goodies for your brother and granny." but it soothed susy at once, and, clinging to robin's hand, she stared at the guests from the shelter of robin's skirts. there was a little stir among the "best people of the county"--a renewal of the chatter, high-pitched, pleasant nothings, and side remarks, in careful undertones. "certainly, not a bit like a forsyth." "i rather think madame doesn't know what is going on here." "fancy entertaining these little persons and mrs. granger with the same spoon, so to speak." and, in a corner, mrs. granger was raging over the damaging imprint of two sticky hands on the delicate fabric of her costly gown. for her's had been the bulk that had stood between susy and her "big girl," and susy had been eating chocolate marshmallow cake with both hands! mrs. granger had come to gray manor with the intention of coaxing miss gordon to spend christmas at wyckham, the granger home. but, as she made ineffectual dabs at the greasy spots on her skirt with her silly little handkerchief, she put such a thought quite away from her mind. "brat!" she cried under her breath, angrily, and from the way she glared at robin and susy no one could have told which of the two she meant. chapter xvi christmas at the manor christmas without jimmie was, for robin, a thing not to think about. and from beryl, inasmuch as that young lady affected a stoical indifference to the holiday, she could get little sympathy. beryl had shocked her with the heresy: "christmas is just for rich people, anyway." "it is not. oh, it isn't," robin had cried in remonstrance. but she could not tell of her and jimmie's happy christ-days without giving way to the tears which, at the thought, scalded the backs of her eyes. it had not been alone the holly and pine of the shop windows, or the simple gifts jimmie's loyal and more fortunate friends brought, or the usual merry feast that had made them happy; it had been a deep and beautiful understanding of the infinite love that had given the christ-child to the world, that love which surpassed even jimmie's love for her or hers for jimmie, and that was hers and everyone elses. she had felt it first when, a very little girl, she had gone, once, with jimmie into the purple shadows of a great church, where the air was sweet with incense and vibrating with the muted notes of an organ. she had stood with jimmie before a little cradle that had seemed beautiful with gold and precious colors but, when she looked again, was a humble thing of wood and straw, and what she had thought so bright was the radiance of candles and the reflection from the many-colored windows. then she had looked at the cradle more closely and had found that it held a beautiful wax babe. when jimmie tugged at her hand she had reluctantly turned away. at the same time a shabby old woman and a little boy, who had been kneeling nearby, arose, and the old woman and the little boy had smiled at her--a _different_ smile and she had smiled back. on the way home jimmie had explained to her that the gift of the christ-child was the great universal gift and belonged to everyone, the world over. she knew, then, why the shabby old woman had smiled--it was over the gift they shared. "christmas is for _everybody_," she finished. "well, all it means to me now that i'm big," pursued beryl, "is stores full of lovely things and crowded with people lucky enough to have money to buy them. and talking about how much everything is. i heard a woman once saying she had to spend five dollars on her aunt because her aunt always spent five dollars on her. that's why i say christmas is for the rich--it's a sort of general exchange and take it back if you don't like it or have half a dozen like 'em, or put it away and send it to some one next christmas. miss lewis, at the settlement where mother worked, gave a book to a lady one christmas and got it back the next, and the leaves weren't even cut." robin laughed in spite of her disapproval of beryl's heresy. "there _are_ different kinds of christmases, beryl, and i'll show you," she protested, then and there vowing to make the christmas at the manor a merry one, in spite of odds. "well, the nicest thing _i_ know that's going to happen is that rub-a-dub-dub is going home," retorted beryl. "that _is_ nice, but there'll be even nicer things. let's invite your mother and dale for dinner and have a little tree and we'll make all sorts of foolish things to put on it." to beryl this did not sound at all exciting but robin loved the thought of sitting with mrs. lynch and dale and beryl, like one happy family, around the long table. she'd ask harkness to cut pine boughs and a nice smelly tree, which she and beryl would adorn with gifts that had no more value than a good laugh. and she would coax harkness to get williams and his nice wife to help open and clean the house of laughter. she'd like to have it a christmas gift from her to the mill children. she found harkness ready for her wildest suggestion. he had confided to williams and mrs. budge that he felt sorry for little missy alone in the big house on christmas. "a lot of pine and holly, missy, and the old place won't look the same. a tree--of course there'll be a tree! whoever heard of christmas without a tree. many's the one i've cut with the young master; he'd have no one but harkness do it, for he said i always found the best trees." but the old man's head began to whirl a little when robin explained about the house of laughter and the dinner that must be "different." she had to tell him again and again, until her tone grew pleading. "i'll help you, missy, only i'm a little slow just understanding. it'll come, though, it'll come. williams will give a hand and his wife maybe, and i'll tell mrs. budge about the christmas cakes and things. it'll be as merry a christmas as old harkness can make it, missy." "oh, mr. harkness, you're a dear," robin cried, with a look that made the old man's heart almost burst with affection. "but i won't tell hannah budge any more than she has to know," he thought, as he went off to do robin's bidding. with williams and his wife and his wife's sister, who had married the telegraph operator at the little station, pressed into the work, the empty cottage at the turn of the road took on rapid changes. windows were opened, doors were thrown wide, letting in the sweet cold air; under the magic of strong soap and good muscle the old wood-work shone with cleanliness; the faded walls lost their melancholy. harkness and williams hauled down a load of wood and piled it high by the back door; mrs. lynch transformed the rusty stove into a shiny, efficient, eager thing. williams, who was very clever and would have been a carpenter if he hadn't been a chauffeur, built tables out of rough boards and, in the living room, put up shelves for books and the window seat robin wanted. robin and beryl flew about in everyone's way, eager to help and generous with advice. "there, i'd say things were pretty nice," exclaimed williams, at the end of the sixth day of work, stepping back to survey with satisfaction the chair he had made out of "odds and ends." "but it doesn't look like what we want--yet!" robin glanced about dolefully. "it needs such a lot to make it homey. where'll we ever get it all?" "now, miss robin, rome wasn't built in a day, as i ever heard of," protested harkness, a smudge over his nose and two long nails between his teeth. "i guess there's truck enough in the attic up there at the manor to fill this house and a dozen like it." "oh, mr. harkness, may we use it? or--just borrow it until my aunt returns? can we?" harkness exchanged glances with williams. harkness knew that it had long been mrs. budge's custom to make a two day trip to new york during the week preceding christmas. they could take advantage of her absence. "well, i guess we can borrow enough, missy, to do." and no one thought of smiling at his "we" for, indeed, everyone there felt that he or she had a share in robin's house of laughter. but even stripping the manor attic of its "truck" did not satisfy robin and the day before christmas found her house of laughter lacking in the things she wanted most. "it ought to have jolly pictures and ever so many books and pillows and nice, frilly curtains," she mourned, wondering how much they would cost and how she could ever get them. on christmas morning, harkness dragged to robin's door a box of gifts from her guardian. most of them miss effie had selected, as poor cornelius allendyce was still confined to his room, and that good-hearted woman had, with a burst of real christmas spirit, simply duplicated each gift, for, though she wasn't at all sure, yet, that this "companion" of robin's choosing was the refined sort robin ought to have, nevertheless she was a girl like robin and christmas was christmas. beryl appreciated the thoughtfulness more than she could express and when she found a little book entitled "old violins" and _only one_, she hugged it to her with a rush of happy feeling. later in the morning mrs. granger's chauffeur arrived with a great box of bon-bons in queer shapes and colors. neither robin nor beryl had ever seen anything quite so extravagantly contrived. "she paid a fortune for _that_," declared beryl, appraisingly. "she must have forgiven susy for spoiling her dress. or maybe she's thinking of her son again. let me read the card. 'hoping you will coax that nice mr. tubbs to bring you to us before my youngsters go back to school--' didn't i tell you, robin?" "i won't go," robin answered briefly, pushing box and card away with a gesture that disposed of mrs. granger and her son. "now we must trim the tree." harkness, true to his boast, had found quite the straightest, princeliest balsam in the nearby woods. its fragrance penetrated and filled the old house. the girls went about sniffing joyously, carrying in their arms all sorts of mysterious objects made of bright paper. harkness, oddly dishevelled and excited, balanced on a stepladder and fastened the gay ornaments where robin directed. beryl had laughed at the idea of having a christmas tree without the usual tinsel and glittering baubles. but after robin and harkness had worked for a half-hour she admitted the effect was very christmasy and "different." "you're awfully clever, robin," she declared, in a tone frankly grudging. "you make little things count for so much--like mother." "i think _that's_ a compliment. and speaking of your mother, beryl lynch, we have just time to wash our hands and faces and change our dresses before she comes. oh, hasn't this day simply flown? and _hasn't_ it been nice, after all? isn't harkness darling--look at him." for harkness, his head on one side, a sprig of holly over one ear where robin had put it, was surveying the effect of an angel which robin had made of bright tissue paper and which he had carefully hung by the heels. "that kite looks as real as can be, missy." giggling, the girls rushed away to make ready for what robin declared (though she had been much hurt by dale's refusing to come) the nicest part of christmas. belowstairs mrs. budge was directing chloe with the last touches of the christmas feast. "that's the prettiest cake i ever saw if i do say so," she cried, patting the round cherry which adorned the centre of the gaily frosted cake. then, lest she grow cheerful, she drew a long sigh from the depths of her bosom. "but, cake or no cake, i never thought i'd live to feed mill persons, coming to our table like the best people. things plain common. it ain't like the old days--it ain't." "the old days are old days, hannah budge," rebuked harkness, who had come into the kitchen. "mebbe our little lydy's ways aren't our ways but it isn't so bad hearing the young voices and you'll admit, mrs. budge, that that's a fine cake and there'd be no cake if missy wasn't here, now, won't you?" "i haven't time for your philosophizing, timothy harkness. with things at sixes and sevens i have enough to do!" but mrs. budge's tone had softened. she _had_ not made a christmas cake (at sixteen hannah budge had taken the prize at the county agricultural exhibit for the finest decorated cake, and she had never forgotten it) since master christopher the third had left them. and she _had_ enjoyed hearing young voices and eager steps in the old house and had caught herself that very morning, as she helped chloe stuff the turkey, singing: "oh, com-m-me let 'tus a-dor-r-re him." chloe's last delectable dish for the dinner eaten, harkness drew back the folding doors to reveal the christmas tree in the conservatory. and robin, waiting for mrs. lynch's "oh" of admiration, gave vent herself to a delighted cry of surprise for, at the foot of the tree, so still as to seem a graven image, sat little susy, cross-legged, staring in wrapt contentment at the bright ornaments. "susy, you _darling_, where in the world did you drop from?" robin rushed to her and knelt at her side. without moving her eyes so much as a fraction of an inch, susy indicated the side door of the conservatory as her means of entrance. in one hand she clutched a soiled ragged picture book, on its uppermost page the colorful illustration of "the night before christmas." susy had not forgotten the magic of that side door which had opened for her upon a feast beyond her wildest imaginings; if there were a place on earth where that christmas tree of her picture could come really true it must be at the "big girl's." alone she had bravely climbed the hill to the manor to find out. not a word could robin's questioning drag from her. "you shall stay here as long as you want," robin finally declared, popping a round bon-bon between the child's trembling lips. "we needed a little girl to sit at the foot of that tree, didn't we?" at robin's command, harkness played the rôle of santa. the girls had fashioned all sorts of nonsensical gifts out of paper and cardboard and paste; no one was forgotten. mrs. lynch declared herself "as rich as rich" with bracelets and a necklace made of red berries. mrs. budge, forgetting, when robin held a sprig of mistletoe over her head and daringly kissed her wrinkled cheek, that "things was going to sixes and sevens," laughed until her sides ached at harkness in his silly clown's cap. robin and beryl, with much solemnity, exchanged purchases each had secretly made at the village store and robin could not resist adding: "dare you to send it to me next christmas." beryl had to admit, deep in her heart, that robin had managed a christmas full of joy that had nothing to do with stores full of lovely things and crowded with people lucky enough to have money to buy them. never having thought much about the christmas spirit, she had no name with which to explain mrs. budge's awkwardly kind manner--even to her, or her mother's unusual animation, or why the picture of little susy, still rooted to the tree, clasping a great paper doll in her arms, made her glad all over. but after a little she disappeared, and presently, from the library, came the strains of her violin, low, pulsing with a deep emotion, now a laugh, now a sob, climbing higher and higher until they sang like the far-off, quivery note of a bird, flying into the heavens. a deep hush fell over the little group of merrymakers. harkness coughed into his hand. mrs. budge fussed around the spacious belt of a dress for a handkerchief and, finding none, surreptitiously lifted a corner of her apron. mrs. lynch caught her throat with a convulsive movement as though something hurt it. robin, watching her, slipped her hand into the mother's and squeezed it. "don't go," she whispered when the music suddenly ceased. "beryl's funny. she likes to be alone when she plays." "i never heard her play--like _that_!" "oh, beryl's wonderful!" robin smiled happily in her faith. "she makes that all up, too, 'cause she hasn't any music. she's going to be the greatest violinist in the world. hush!" beryl had begun a lilting refrain, as though a mother laughed as she sang a lullaby. it had in it a familiar strain which carried little mrs. moira back to beryl's baby days. then the lullaby swung into the deeper tones of a christmas anthem and again into a tempestuous outburst of melody, as though beryl had let loose all at once the riotous feelings that surged within her. just as the last note died away a bell pealed through the house. because it was still christmas, really being only nine o'clock, everyone looked for a surprise. and a surprise it was, indeed, when harkness placed an impressive envelope in robin's hands and said that a stranger had brought it to the door. "he looked like one of these motorcycle men, but before i could as much as say 'good evening' he was off in the dark." robin studied the address, which was printed. it gave no clue whatsoever. nor was there anything else on the envelope. she broke the sealed flap, with an excited giggle. five crisp bank-notes fell out. "for goodness' sake," cried beryl, staring. "who ever sent them?" "to miss gordon forsyth. please use this money for your house of laughter. i am deeply interested in your experiment. frankly, i do not believe it will work; but if it does my little contribution will be well spent; and if it doesn't, my own conviction will be justified. your friend near the rushing water." beryl squealed with delight. "how _larky_ to have her remember every solitary thing you told her, robin--even what we called her house. what are you going to do with it all? i wish _i_ could get money like that." robin stood staring at the letter--not at all jubilant over the unexpected gift. "i wish she hadn't said she didn't believe the experiment would work. it _isn't_ an experiment and it _will_ work. i'm not _trying_ anything, am i?" appealing to mrs. lynch, who hastily assured her with a "no, dearie." then robin gathered up the bank-notes. "though i did wish we had more nice things for the house and now we can get them. but isn't this an awful lot of money?" for she had seen a one and two ciphers in a corner of one bank-note. "i never had so much in my life." at this mrs. budge sniffed and, the christmas celebration apparently abandoned in the excitement of the strange letter, she departed kitchenward. harkness volunteered to escort susy and mrs. lynch back to the village. in a twinkling the house had quieted so that the girls' footsteps, as they climbed the stairs, resounded strangely. robin leaned for a moment against the banister and looked back into the shadows of the great, dimly-lit hall. "listen a moment, beryl! can't you hear tiny echoes of voices and laughter? don't you s'pose even the things we think and feel get into the air, too--and linger?" beryl tugged at her arm. "oh, come on, robin. you make me creepy. you'll be seeing ghosts in a moment. i want to have a good look at that letter. _wasn't_ it a surprise, though?" but after a close study of it, beryl threw the letter down in disappointment. "not so much as a tiny crown on it! i'll bet she had someone write it for her, too. it looks all big and scrawly--like a man. anyway, robin, you ought to keep one of the bills as a souvenir." chapter xvii the house of laughter the day after christmas, and for many days thereafter, robin counted over the five precious bank-notes. she knew with her eyes shut each line and shading of their fascinating decoration. she kept them in a little heart-shaped box that had been a favor at a studio party she had gone to with jimmie a few years ago. their magic opened possibilities for her house of laughter; curtains--cushions--books--pictures--games, why, she could have all the things she had wanted so much to complete her little cottage. and behind her eager planning was a thought she kept shut tight away in her heart. if there were any money left--by careful buying--the queen would surely want her to give it to dale to perfect his model. for had not adam kraus and dale both said that the little invention would make everything at the mills better? she would present her gift to him at the "opening" of the house of laughter. mrs. lynch had assured her dale would be there. under cover of the general merriment she would find an opportunity. she went over and over, until she could say them backward, the few words with which she would make him accept the money. beryl, not knowing what was going on in robin's mind, declared she fussed an awful lot over samples and lists for anyone who had so much money to spend and mrs. lynch encouraged her economy because, she said, "'twas likely as not the roof'd leak in the spring and shingles cost a lot, they did." when robin declared the lovely rose-patterned cretonne too expensive, mrs. lynch helped her dye the cheese cloth they bought at the village store a gay yellow. and she wisely counselled robin to let her write to miss lewis (remembering the simplicity of the settlement house where she had worked) and ask her to send up a few suitable pictures and the right books with which to begin. "_she'll_ know, dearie." while the final preparations were going rapidly forward, mrs. lynch took pains to spread the news of the house of laughter through the mill village by the simple medium of taking a cup of tea with mrs. whaley and telling her all about it. "it's better it is than the written word," she explained to robin, who had worried over just how the mill people were going to know about their plans. "and when you send the cute little cards around it'll be in crowds they come, you mark me." "don't you think everything'll be ready by saturday night?" robin asked eagerly. percival tubbs, for one, hoped everything would be, for he had not been able to hold robin to serious study since the holidays. and poor harkness had developed a stitch in his back hanging the pictures miss lewis sent and laying clean white paper in cupboards and on shelves. though beryl had not cared particularly whether the windows of the living room of the house of laughter were hung in rose or yellow, and laughed when robin chose a scarlet-robed picture of sir galahad, because he looked as though he were seeing such a beautiful vision, to hang over the shelf williams had built as a mantel, she felt a lively interest in the festivities which were to open the house to the mill people. robin let her help in planning everything to the smallest detail. the children were to come in the afternoon and play outdoors with their sleds and indoors with the books and games, eat cookies and cocoa and depart with beautiful red and blue and yellow balloons. in the evening the young men and women and the fathers and mothers were to gather in the living room and play games and sing and maybe dance and lock at the books and make lovely plans and admire everything. there would be sandwiches and coffee for them, too. and robin would make a little speech, telling them that the house of laughter was all theirs to do what they wanted with it and that the key would always hang just behind the shiny green trellis. robin had demurred at this last detail, shrinking in horror at the thought of a "speech," but beryl had insisted that she really must because she was a "forsyth." then robin wrote and sent to each of the mill houses cards inviting them to come to the house of laughter on saturday night. and, everything ready, she counted a precious two hundred dollars left in the heart-shaped box. that, with what she had not spent from her ridiculously big allowance, seemed a fortune. saturday dawned a crisp, cold, bright day, promising to the expectant sponsors of the house of laughter, all kinds of success. but at twelve o'clock a little group of mill workers, chosen by their fellows, went to frank norris, the superintendent, and asked for higher wages and better living conditions, adam kraus acting as their leader. it was not the first time these complaints and requests had been laid before the superintendent--but now, in the hearts of the hundreds of men and girls who hung around the yards long after the noon whistle blew, a new hope kindled, for there had never before been a man among them who could talk so convincingly as adam kraus or could more effectually make old norris realize that they all knew now, to a man, that they could get more money almost anywhere else and work and live like decent human beings. adam kraus had opened their eyes. he was their hero--for the moment. as he came, somewhat precipitously, from the office building they gave a quick shout that died, however, with a menacing suddenness, as they saw his failure written on his angry face. they pressed about him, eager for details, but he would tell them nothing beyond a curt admission that he had not been able to make norris listen. "i say, go to the manor!" cried a man who had not been at the mills more than a month. a strapping girl, with a coarse prettiness, laughed a mocking strident laugh that expressed the feelings of the crowd even more than the louder curses around her. the workers slowly dispersed, in little groups, talking in excited, angry tones. dale lynch detached himself from one of these groups and walked on alone, a frown darkening his face; nor did he shake off his absorption even after he sat down at the table to eat his mother's good saturday meal--overcooked for standing. "has adam been to norris again?" asked big danny. dale nodded. it was not necessary for either his father or mother to ask the outcome of the call. "norris wouldn't listen to a word. i've been wondering if adam is right--about the way to get this." "he ought to know more'n you do," flared big danny, who loved something upon which to vent his own rancor. "i suppose." dale admitted, eating with quick, absent-minded gulps. "i'd like to be the head of these mills--i'd see both sides and make the other fellow see, too." "sure, it's wonderful you'd be," murmured mrs. lynch, caressingly. "well, i'm about as far from it as i am from being president of the united states. adam has a better chance--if he ever gets his way. _there's_ a leader." mrs. lynch cut a generous portion of apple pie in a silence that said plainly she did not agree with her boy. dale ate the pie, wiped his lips, pushed back the plate. "the rileys have got to move up the river." "dale, you don't say so?" mrs. lynch was all concern now. the rileys were neighbors. tim riley had fallen down an unguarded shaft at the mills and had hurt his back. mrs. lynch had helped mrs. riley care for her husband and had grown very fond of the plucky little woman. "why, it's his death he'll get with the dampness up there, and those blessed little colleens." "well, they've got to go. riley can only work half-time now and he can't afford one of these houses." "oh, dear, oh, dear," sighed mrs. lynch. "don't tell robin," she begged. "it's so happy the child is with her house of laughter, as she calls it and--dale, she's a different forsyth." "she's just a kid," he answered, in a tone that implied robin could have little weight against the impregnable house of forsyth. but a few hours later, when, with the coming of night into the valley, the last tired youngster departed from the house of laughter, balloon on high, the "just a kid" fell to restoring the house to its original perfection with a vim that seemed as tireless as her spirits. "_wasn't_ it a success? didn't the children have a wonderful time?" she begged to know, with all the happy concern of a middle-aged hostess. "are you dreadfully tired, mother lynch? because tonight's the real test." she stopped suddenly and leaned on her broom, her face very serious. "i do hope the big girls will like it. i wish the queen hadn't said she didn't believe our--experiment would work. why _won't_ it work? don't grown-ups like to be happy just as much as children--when they get a chance?" mrs. lynch had no answer for robin's wondering. "queens don't know about things in this country," beryl, instead, assured her. "these books are just about ruined. i thought tommy black would eat up this arabian nights." "that shows how much they want them! i don't care if they _do_ eat them." robin was too happy to be disturbed by anything. wasn't her beautiful plan in the process of coming true? and didn't she have her money in her pocket all ready for dale's grasp? she had brought flowers from the manor which she arranged on the tables and the mantel under her beloved sir galahad. these, with the mellow glow of the lamps and the sun-yellow of the curtains, and the gleams of red from the shiny stove, which had to do for the fireplace robin had wanted, and the brilliant scarlet of the sir galahad, all served to soften and lend beauty to the faded bits of carpeting and the shabby furnishings brought from the manor attic. "i do think everything's lovely and it's just because you've all been so kind about helping," robin declared, viewing the room with pride. "i hope ever so many people'll come and that they'll believe it's theirs. but, oh, beryl, don't you think we could make them know without my saying a speech?" and robin shivered with nervousness. "of course not," beryl answered with cruel promptness. "anyway, as long as you thought about all this you ought to get the credit." beryl had no patience with robin's "blushing-unseen" nature. "it'll be easy, anyway. you just ought to know how i felt the day mr. henri took me to play for martini. why, my knees turned to putty. but then, _that_ was different. listen, there comes some one now! i'll stay in the kitchen until the sandwiches are made." dale opened the door and adam kraus followed him in. then, while robin, two bright spots of color burning in her cheeks, was showing them the new books, a group of mothers arrived, stiff and miserable in their sunday best, and she shyly greeted them. when another knock sounded mrs. lynch took the women in charge so that robin might welcome the newcomers. they were four of the mill girls and they crowded into the room, staring curiously about them and at robin, whose greeting they answered awkwardly. spying adam kraus, they rushed to him with noisy banter and laughter that had a shrill edge. robin, left alone and without the courage to join either group, watched the girls as they gathered about adam kraus and dale. suddenly panic seized her. she fought against it, she told herself that everything was going all right and that in a few moments more people would come, and these girls, who looked at her so rudely from the corners of their eyes, would forget about her and have a good time. from the kitchen, where harkness was presiding, came the first faint aroma of coffee, and beryl and mrs. williams were piling dainty sandwiches on plates as fast as their quick fingers could make them. mrs. lynch and the mothers seemed to be gossiping contentedly at one end of the room but robin wondered why they talked so low, and why mrs. lynch now and then glanced anxiously in her direction; once she heard something about "the rileys" and an imploring "hush" from mother lynch. adam kraus and the four girls were urging dale to do something and robin saw a big girl with bold black eyes lay a persuasive hand on dale's arm, which dale shook off almost rudely. robin hated the girl, and wished she had the courage to break into the circle and drag dale away from her, instead of standing in such a silly way in the kitchen door with her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. and, oh, why _didn't_ more people come? what was the matter? after what seemed to robin an interminable time, though in fact it was only a few minutes, adam kraus moved toward her, trailed by the four girls. "i've got to run along, miss forsyth," he said in his easy, soft voice. "there's an important meeting in the village. you've fixed a nice little doll house here." the girl with the black eyes, standing just back of adam kraus' shoulder, laughed--a scornful laugh. "too bad the rileys can't move here!" the rileys again! robin flushed at the girl's laugh and hateful eyes, tried to answer adam kraus and to beg them all to wait until harkness brought in the coffee, but found her throat paralyzed and her feet rooted to the spot. the mill mothers saw adam kraus and the girls start for the little hall and hastily moved in that direction themselves. "oh, _don't_ go!" robin managed to cry, then, moving after them, "mrs. lynch, make them stay. why, i wanted this to be a _party_, to--to--this is your house of laughter! i--" she struggled desperately to recall the words of the "speech" beryl had declared perfect and to keep from breaking down into tears before these hard, staring eyes. the black-eyed girl elbowed her way out from behind the others, casting a quick look at adam kraus as though for his approval. "i guess you named this house all right, miss forsyth. it _is_ to laugh! but there ain't many of us that know all poor little mamie riley's stood, and cares about her the same way we cared for sarah castle that feels like laughing tonight!" she tossed her head as though proud of her courage, then singled out dale for a parting shot. "we're sorry, mr. lynch, that you're too good to come with us! ma, (turning to a meek-faced woman), leave the door unlocked. the meeting'll be a long one." and just as mrs. williams patted down the last sandwich, mrs. lynch, with a shaking hand, closed the door and, turning, faced dale and robin. "well, of all the ungrateful creatures!" cried beryl, who had taken in the little scene from the kitchen door. "now don't you be a-caring, girlie dear," begged mrs. lynch, frightened at robin's stricken face. robin turned her glance around the deserted room as though she simply could not believe her eyes. it must surely be an awful dream from which she would awaken. mrs. lynch went on, speaking quickly as though to keep back her own tears of disappointment. "it's a grand time the kiddies had this day, bless the little hearts of them, and a loving you like you were some bit of a fairy--the impudence of them--" "who are the rileys?" demanded robin, sternly--for she _had_ to know; the rileys had spoiled her beautiful plans. "now don't you be a-bothering your bright head with the rileys or anyone else--" dale interrupted his mother. on his face still lingered the dark flush that had crept up over it at the black-eyed girl's taunt. "i don't know why miss forsyth _shouldn't_ know the reason the mill people didn't come tonight. there's a big protest meeting about the rileys--it wasn't gotten up until five o'clock or i'd have told you. tim riley's been laid up for six months and he's just back on half-time and can't ever do any better, i guess--and he's been ordered out of his house which means--up the river--" "up--where granny castle lives?" broke in robin, in a queer voice. "yes. and it's hard on tim's wife and her children--they're just little things. and he can't go anywhere else, now. it seems tim's wife went herself to norris and begged for a little time until she heard from an uncle up in canada or found some way of earning extra money herself, and norris wouldn't give in for one day. the men are all pretty sore and they called this meeting--" "that's where that girl wanted you to go?" "yes. and that's why adam kraus had to hurry off." robin suddenly clutched at her pocket, her face flaming. "dale, will you hurry--down to that meeting--and take them--this?" she held out a thick roll of bills. "it maybe isn't enough but it will help. i had saved it for something else, but, oh, those babies just _can't_ go to that dreadful place--" dale shook his head and put his hands behind him. "that wouldn't go at that meeting, miss forsyth. the men would see red. it isn't charity they want--it's justice. they're giving good honest labor to norris and he isn't fair in return. they're willing to pay to live decently--they just want the chance. and to work decently, too. if you knew the rileys you'd know what a proud sort they are--they wouldn't take your money any more than i would--or mother, here. if your aunt were home or--if you'd go to norris--" he considered a moment, frowning. "the men and girls are so roused up that it'll be only a step to organizing and all that sort of thing and these mills have been pretty free from labor trouble--if only norris could be made to understand that. but he's so set and out-of-date--" dale laughed suddenly, a short, bitter laugh, "i suppose i'm extra sore because he refused to even look at my model." "you all needn't take your spite out on robin," broke in beryl, vehemently. "well--miss robin is a forsyth and after all that's happened today, the forsyths aren't very popular with the mill people. you mustn't blame them too much," turning to robin. "they're not in the mood to be patronized and they look upon--all this--as a sort of--oh, charity." robin looked so bewildered and so small and so distressed that dale laid his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. his voice rang tender like his mother's. "don't you be a-worrying your kind little heart! and if you begin right, you'll get your house of laughter across to them--yet." "oh, what do you mean?" robin caught desperately at the straw he offered. "let them pay for it. they can. and they'll be willing to--when they get the idea." "but i wanted it to be--my gift." "the opportunity for them to have it _will_ be your gift." mrs. lynch suddenly beamed as though she saw a rift in all the clouds. "sure, that's the way miss lewis talked. and i forgetting it! let them pay as much as they can and it's a lot more they'll be a-treasuring what's theirs. and no charity about it at all at all! these folks are good, honest folks, dearie, and it's self-respecting they like to feel and a-paying for what they get whether it's the food they eat or a bit of fun. it's a beginning, anyway, this day and you shan't grieve your blessed heart for, if i'm not mistaken, there'll be laughter enough in this house by and by. mind you what i said once about beginnings had to come first!" which was a long speech for mrs. lynch and amazingly comforting to robin. she slipped the roll of bank-notes back into the pocket of her dress; she could not even offer them to dale, now. "you're dear and patient and i guess i've been stupid and expected too much. but i shan't make any more mistakes and i'm going to make the most of my 'beginning'." "and now, dale boy, why not have a bit of mr. harkness' good coffee?" but, though beryl and robin pressed, dale refused and slipped away and robin had a moment's picture of the triumph of the "horrid" girl when she saw dale come into the meeting. then, remembering the plight of the rileys' she was ashamed of herself for not wanting dale to go. sitting around the centre table she and beryl ate sandwiches while harkness and mrs. lynch and mrs. williams sipped coffee. the fire sputtered and gleamed cheerfully, and sir galahad's scarlet coat made a brilliant splash of color in the soft glow of the room. "who was that big girl with the black eyes?" robin found the courage to ask beryl when the whole dreadful evening was over and they were back at the manor. "oh, she's sophie mack. she and sarah castle were chums and worked together. dale says she's awfully clever but _i_ think she's horrid. the way she spoke to him tonight." robin agreed that she was horrid. and she hated to think that her prince could find this sophie mack clever. too tired from the disappointing evening to want to talk, and too wide awake to dream of going to sleep, she lay very still until beryl's deep breathing told her her companion had slipped into dreamland. then she crept from bed and crouched, a mite of a thing, at the window sill and stared out into the brilliant night. a moon shone coldly over the snowy hills, throwing into bold relief the stacks and buildings of the mills. robin recalled that day she had first likened them to a giant. that day seemed--so much had happened since and she had grown so much inside--very long ago and she a silly girl thinking stories about everything. her guardian, to amuse her, had talked about finding a jack to climb the beanstalk and kill the monster. she smiled scornfully at the fancy--so futile in the face of the tremendous misery--and happiness--that giant had the power to make! chapter xviii the luckless stocking two hours after robin's lonely vigil at the window ended, fire destroyed the empty cottage "up the river" into which the rileys had been ordered to move. "i wish it had burned in the daytime when we could have watched it," beryl had declared, almost resentfully. but robin's concern had been for old granny castle and little susy. harkness, who had brought them the news, reassured her. "too bad they couldn't all a' burned but no such luck--only th' one. it's said that there are some as _knows_ how a' empty house without so much as a crumb to draw a rat could a' gone up like that did. and williams says as how there was men stood around and wouldn't lift a hand to help put out the blaze though they took care it didn't spread." "what do you mean, mr. harkness?" broke in robin. "why, just this, missy, williams says that there's a lot of bad feeling stirrin' and bad feelings lead to hasty things like revenge." "you mean some one of the mill people set it on fire?" asked beryl slowly, with wide eyes. "and who else'd have bad feelings?" robin recalled, with alarm, what dale had said at the house of laughter. could dale have done this thing--or helped? or stood around and watched it burn? oh, no, no--not dale. harkness, seeing her concern, dexterously broke a soft-boiled egg into a silver egg-cup and said in a carefully casual voice, intended to put the fire quite out of their minds: "well, the constable'll find the man what did it, so don't you worry your head, missy." robin, her heart heavy with all she wanted to do and couldn't find a way to do, swallowed a scream at his "don't you worry your head." why _did_ everyone say that to her--just because she was little on the outside? if _she_ didn't worry her head--who was there to worry? it was with a heavy spirit she dressed herself--girded herself, she called it--for her call upon mr. norris at the mills. the long hours of sunday, through which she had to wait, had filled her with misgiving. now she looked so absurdly small in the mirror, her tousled hair so childish, no matter how much she tried to tuck it out of sight under the little dark blue toque, why would anyone, especially a manager of a mill, listen to her? beryl, stirred to sympathy by robin's daring to face the lion in his den, told her for the hundredth time just how she had suffered before that momentous visit to martini, the orchestra leader, in new york. "why, my hands were clammy and my teeth rattled and everything whirled in front of me and my knees just knocked together, but, say, i gulped and i said terribly hard to myself, 'you want this thing and you can't get it if you're all soft inside and a coward', and, robin, in a twinkling, something began to grow inside of me and get big and big until i had courage to do anything! of course it was different with me but you'll probably feel just the way i did, all strong inside, when you face him and get stirred up. only--i hate to tell you, but i saw you put your stocking on wrong side out and then change it and _that's_ bad luck!" robin looked down at the luckless stocking. it looked too absurdly a trifle to have weight with anything as important as righting the wrongs of the rileys. afterward, however, robin vowed she'd always take great care in her dressing! frank norris had been superintendent of the forsyth mills for twenty-five years. since the death of old christopher forsyth he had run them pretty much as he pleased, for, inasmuch as his accounting was accurate to the smallest fraction and his profits unfailingly forthcoming, neither madame forsyth nor her financial or legal advisers, saw fit to interfere with him. for that reason the old man felt annoyance as well as surprise when robin broke into the usual routine of his monday morning, already disturbed by the mystery of saturday night's fire. he had duly paid his respects to the little forsyth heir with a sunday afternoon call and had afterward reported to mrs. norris that she "was a little thing, all red hair and eyes." but now, as she stood at one end of his desk, something in the resolute set of her chin arrested and held his attention; there _was_ something more--he could not at the moment say what--to the "little thing" than eyes and red hair. robin swallowed (as beryl had instructed) and plunged straight into her errand. wouldn't he please let the rileys stay in their cottage for a little while--until something could be done? at the mention of the rileys the smile he had mustered vanished, and his bushy eyebrows drew sharply down over his narrow eyes from which angry little gleams flashed. "who asked you to come to me, miss forsyth?" robin's heart went down into her boots. "no one," she answered in a faint voice. then, quite suddenly, something in the hard, angry face opposite her fired that spark within her that beryl had assured her she would feel. she felt the "big thing" grow and grow until she stood straight, quite unafraid, and could go on calmly. "only i don't think--and i don't believe my aunt would think--it is quite fair to put them out of their house when they've had so much trouble. hasn't mr. riley always been a very good workman? there are lots of things here i don't think quite right, and when my aunt comes back i'm going to ask her to change--" "may i interrupt you, miss forsyth, to inquire upon what experience you base your knowledge? for i assume, of course, you would not want to radically change things here without knowing what you were offering in their place. i was under the impression that you were quite a youngster and had lived with your father in a somewhat bohemian fashion--" a deep rose stained robin's face. she caught the hint of a slur. "my father taught me what is honest and fair and kind and cruel and--" she had to stop to control the trembling in her voice. the man took advantage of it by breaking in, his voice measured and conciliatory. he suddenly realized the ridiculousness--and the danger--in quarreling with even a fifteen-year-old forsyth. "my dear child, i can readily understand in what light certain conditions appear to one of your tender years. when you are older you will understand that an industry such as i am in charge of here, and conducting, i believe, quite satisfactorily for the forsyths, has to be run by the head and not the heart. i dislike immensely having to do such things as forcing the rileys to move but you must see it is my duty. if i make an exception in their case--there will be hundreds like them. as it happens--" he let a rasp of anger break into his voice--"the cottage into which they were to move was burned down saturday night. however that will only delay the enforcing of my order and when the man or men who set fire to it are caught they will be dealt with--severely. your rileys will enjoy a few days of grace until we can put another into shape." "if they burned it it's because they had to show--us--how they felt--that the place wasn't fit to live in! mr. norris, the mill people _are_ nice people; i heard--i heard someone say that this was the only mill in all new england where real white folks worked--but they think we--i mean--the forsyths--don't care--" norris stood up abruptly. somehow or another he must end this absurd interview while he could yet hang on to his temper. some one of these miserable agitators--he suspected who it might be--had influenced the girl, was using her for a tool. he had heard, of course, of the intimacy between miss gordon and the lynchs. "my dear girl--you have no idea how much i would like to go into all this with you and straighten out the muddle in your head--but, really, i am a very busy man. tell me, didn't young dale lynch persuade you to come to me?" robin's lips parted impulsively to deny it--then closed. dale _had_ suggested her coming to norris. before she could explain, the man went on, a ring of triumph sharpening his voice. "ah, i thought so! now let me tell you why he is disgruntled. i would not look at some contrivance he brought to me which he claims will, when it is perfected, increase the efficiency of our looms fifty per cent. he's a bright young fellow but he doesn't know his place, and he's too chummy with a certain man in these mills to be healthy for him. however, i'm looking to our friend the town constable to straighten all that out. now, miss gordon," with a hand on her shoulder he gently and in a fatherly manner led her toward the door. "i would suggest, that, without the advice of your aunt--or your guardian--you do not worry your pretty little red head over this!" and he bowed her with pleasant courtesy out of the door. "oh! oh! oh!" _another_ one telling her not to worry! she clenched her teeth that no one in the outer office might see how near she was to tears. outside, in a stifled voice, she directed williams to drive her back to the manor, then sat very straight in the car as though those hateful eyes could pierce the thick walls and gloat over her defeat. halfway to the manor she remembered suddenly that she had quite ignored the study hours and that doubtless poor percival tubbs was pulling his van dyke to pieces in his rage. then in turn she forgot the tutor in a flash of concern for dale. that beast of a norris had said something about dale being too chummy with a certain man--and the constable! did they suspect adam kraus and dale of setting fire to the cottage? oh, why had she let him think dale had suggested her interfering for the rileys--how stupid she had been! if they arrested dale and accused him it would be her own fault. a fine way for her to repay dear, dear mother lynch. what _could_ she do? beryl met her with the warning that mr. tubbs was "simply furious"--and had said something about "standing this vagary about as long as he could," which did not mean much to robin, not half so much as beryl's own ill-temper, for the tutor had taken the annoyance of robin's high-handed absentedness out on the remaining pupil. with beryl cross she could not tell her that she had gotten dale into trouble. she must meet the situation alone. she must warn dale, first of all. and to do that she must resort to the distasteful expedient of hanging about in the groceries-and-notions store until dale passed by after work or stopped for mail as he might possibly do. she found no difficulty in getting away alone, for beryl, in the sulks, had buried herself in the deep window-seat of the library. down in the store she startled the old storekeeper by an almost wholesale order of candies and cookies and topped it off by a demand for a pink knitting wool, which, robin hoped mightily, might be found only on the topmost shelf. then, while he was rummaging and grumbling under his breath, she hurriedly told him she _didn't_ want it and dropped a crisp five dollar bill on the counter, for the men were pouring down the street and any moment dale might come. no coquetting miss, contriving to meet the lad of her fancy, could have planned things to more of a nicety; robin, her arms full of her absurd purchases, came out of the store just as dale and adam kraus walked along. it was not so much the unusualness of the girl's being there--and alone, that brought dale to a quick stop; it was the imploring look in her wide and serious eyes. "where's beryl--or that chauffeur?" he took her packages from her. "i want to talk to you. i _have_ to. will you walk just a little way home with me?" "why, what's up? of course i will. come, let's cut through here." for dale realized that many curious eyes were staring at them, and not too kindly. someone laughed. he would be accused of "truckling" to a forsyth, which, just then, was likely to bring contempt upon him. neither he nor robin saw the incongruous picture they made; she in her warm suit of softest duvetyn and rich with fur, he in his working clothes, swinging a dinner pail in one hand and in the other balancing her knobby packages. all she thought of was that this was dale, the prince who had once befriended her, whose make-believe presence had often gladdened her lonely childhood hours, and who was in danger now; and he looked down into the little face under its fringe of flame-red hair and wondered what in the world made it so tragic and why it strangely haunted him as belonging to some far-off picture in the past. vehemently, because it had been bottled up so long, robin told him how afraid she was for him--that norris had as much as said he suspected him and adam kraus, and that the constable might arrest them any moment and wouldn't he please--go away--or--or something? "he says you're disgruntled 'cause he wouldn't look at your 'toy.' he's terribly mad about everything--i could see it in his horrid eyes. oh, i _hate_ him!" she finished. they had left the village and were close to the bend in the road where stood the house of laughter. dale stopped short and threw his head back with a loud laugh. robin had wondered in her heart with what courage her prince would take the news of his danger but she had not expected this! however, his laugh softened the lines of his face until it looked boyish and oh, so much like it had that night long ago when she had been lost. "well, here i am laughing away and forgetting to thank you for wanting to help me. but you needn't be afraid for me, miss robin. there is still a little justice in the world, in spite of men like norris, and i can prove to anyone that i was snug in my bed until my mother dragged me out to go off up to the old village. i can't say i helped fight the fire--what was the use? nothing could have saved the old place. and i'd rather like to shake hands with the man who set it on fire, though it was sort of a low-down trick. norris won't house anyone in that rat-hole." an immense relief shone in robin's face. she knew dale had not done the "low-down trick." she wished she had made norris believe it! "about the toy--" dale went on, soberly. "maybe in the end it'll be a good thing for me that norris turned it down. adam kraus has taken it and he's going to have some little metal contrivances made that it had to have and then he'll take it to grangers' and he feels pretty sure that granger will buy it. only i had a sort of feeling that i wanted it used here--you see these mills gave definite shape to this thing that has been growing in my head for a long time, just like verses in a poet's. i went to a technical night school for years, you know, and i couldn't get enough of the machine shop. one of the teachers in the school got this job for me here. i'd never been outside of new york before and i thought this was heaven, honest." "mr. norris said you claimed it would--oh, something about efficiency," robin floundered. dale nodded. "i not only claim, i know. that little thing of mine attached to the looms here would revolutionize the whole industry for the forsyths. you see these mills are way behind times in their equipment; with improved looms they could turn out more work, pay better wages, and give the men better living and working conditions. and men--the sort they have here--will work better with up-to-date things around them; gives them an up-to-the-minute respect for their job." robin stamped her foot in one of her impetuous bursts of anger. "he ought to be _made_ to buy it!" she cried. dale turned to her and stared at her intently. "you're a funny little thing. why do you care so much?" robin had a wild longing to bring back to his mind that november night, long ago, when he had found her clinging abjectly to the palings of the park fence and had taken her home, that she had declared then that he was her play-prince and that she would hunt for him until she found him! and, quite by coincidence, she _had_ found him and now she wanted to do this thing for him and not entirely to help the forsyth mills! but if she told him--and he laughed--her pretty pretend would be all over and, because it belonged to that happy childhood in the bird-cage with jimmie, it was precious and she did not want to lose it--yet. so she flushed and answered shyly: "i--don't--know." "i'm ever so much obliged, miss robin, for your interest and your worry--over me. it gives a fellow a jolly feeling of importance to know that a little girl is bothering her head over his luck. and miss robin, you've made things tremendously bright for my mother this winter--and for my father, too. i didn't know whether mother'd be happy here in wassumsic after being so busy in new york but it was the only way i could stop her from working her head off and i'd decided _my_ shoulders were broad enough to support my family. and you've done a lot for beryl, too. i can see it." "oh, _don't_!" cried robin. as if she could let him thank her for mother lynch--as if the debt were not on her side. they had reached the manor gate now and dale handed her the packages. "everything will come out all right, miss robin, so don't you be worrying your little head," he admonished and strangely enough robin answered him with a smile. _he_ was different. but robin's "bad" day had not ended yet. beryl's "sulk" had grown, like the gathering clouds of an impending storm, into a big gloom that did not lighten even when, after dinner, the girls were left alone in the library with their beloved "one thousand and seventy-four" books. from over the edge of "vanity fair" robin watched anxiously the preoccupation and shadow on beryl's face. (oh, why _had_ she changed that inside-out stocking!) "beryl, what is the matter?" "nothing." "there _is_. you won't read or talk or--anything." "well, i don't feel like it." "what _do_ you feel like--inside?" persisted robin. "like--nothing. _just_ like it." "beryl, are you discouraged about--your music?" robin put her finger so accurately upon the sore spot that beryl winced. robin added: "you ought not to be--you're wonderful!" "i'm _not_. you think so 'cause you don't know! i can't get something i used to have. i had it when i played on christmas night and oh, i felt as though i'd always have it--it just tingled in my fingers and made my heart almost burst and then--it went away. i can't rouse it now. i don't even know--what made it come--inside me. but i do know that i'm as far away from--what i want, really working and getting ahead--as i ever was. _further_, way off here. at least when i was in new york i had dear old jacques henri to help me!" robin's book tumbled to the floor. she had an odd feeling as though beryl--the first girl friend she had ever had--might be slipping away from her. "you want to go back to new york?" she asked stupidly. "of course, silly. there isn't anything, here." "then you ought to go. beryl, you _must_ go. i'm going to give you the rest of the money--what i saved from the queen's christmas gift and--and--my allowance. oh, please, beryl, _don't_ look like that!" "thanks!" beryl's voice rang cold. "but i'm not reduced to charity, yet. of course i've been kidding myself that i earn all the money you pay me for living here--with a few clothes thrown in. don't think i don't know what those horrid creatures at the mills say about me being proud and too stuck-up to work like dale and the others. they even taunt dale. i hate myself when i think of it. and all i'm earning wouldn't keep me very long--if i ever did go to study. oh, i just hate--_hate_--_hate_ being poor!" her voice broke in a great sob. robin wanted to throw her arms about her and comfort her but she was afraid for beryl looked like a different being. and, while she hesitated, beryl flung herself out of the room. robin stared into the fire, little lines of worry and perplexity wrinkling her face. everything was so stupidly hard; no matter what she tried or wanted to do--she ran up against a wall of pride. her poor little treasured money that she had kept in the heart-shaped box! if she had had it in her hands then she would have thrown it into the fire. oh, for a chance to do something, give something that could not be counted--and spurned--in dollars and cents! chapter xix granny thoroughly exhausted by the nervous strain of the day before robin slept late. when she awakened it was to the alarming realization that beryl was not with her--her bed was empty, the room deserted, from the bathroom came no sound of splashing water, with which beryl usually emphasized her morning dip. the unhappy happenings of the evening just past flashed into robin's mind. beryl had not even said good-night, had pretended to be asleep. what if she had gone away from the manor? the thought was so upsetting that robin dressed in frantic haste, paying careful regard to her stockings, however, and tumbled down the stairs, almost upsetting harkness and a tray of breakfast. "where's beryl?" she demanded. "miss beryl's gone, missy. she got up early and went off directly she had breakfast." "did she--did she have a bag?" faltered poor robin. "why, yes, missy, she had that bag she come with 'near as i can remember. didn't she tell you she was going?" "well--not so early," robin defended. "if it's a quarrel, and young people fall out more times 'n not, missy, don't you feel badly. miss beryl'll be back here, mark my words! she's smart enough to know when things are soft." "don't you ever, _ever_ say that again, harkness! beryl didn't want to stay here in the first place. she's proud and she's fine and she had ambitions that are grander than anything the rest of us ever dreamed of. it's just because it _is_ soft here that she didn't want to stay. she thought she wasn't really earning anything. i should think--" and oh, how her voice flayed poor trembling harkness, "i should think if you _cared_ anything about me you'd be dreadfully sorry to have me left alone here--" "now, missy! miss robin! old harkness'll go straight down to the village and bring miss beryl--" robin laid her hand on the old man's arm. "i just said that to punish you. no, i'll be very lonesome here but i will _not_ send for beryl. we'll get along someway. if i only were not rich, everything would go all right, wouldn't it, mr. harkness?" "well, i don't just get your meaning but i will. and i guess so, missy. and now what do you say to a bite of breakfast--fetched hot from the kitchen to your own sunny room?" robin knew she would break the old man's heart if she refused his service so she climbed back up the stairs to the sunny window of the deserted sitting-room and awaited the tray of hot breakfast. and as she sat there her eyes suddenly fell upon cynthia, sitting straight among the cushions of the chaise longué, staring at her with faded, unblinking eyes. beryl had not taken the doll! a great hurt pressed hard against robin's throat. beryl had _wanted_ to make her feel badly. but why--oh, what had she done? "you can stay there, cynthia. _i_ won't touch you," she cried, turning to the window, and at the same time she registered the vow in her heart that by no littlest word or act of hers should beryl know how her desertion had hurt her. a week of stormy weather, which made the roads almost impassable, helped robin. she threw herself into her studies with a determination almost as upsetting to percival tubbs as her former indifference. and when the studies were over she buried herself in the great divan before the library fire with books piled about her while harkness hovered near at hand, watching her with an anxious eye. robin did not always read the open page. sometimes, holding it before her, she let her mind go over word by word what dale had said to her as they walked home from the store. it had not been much, to be sure, but it had been enough to make her feel that her prince had opened his heart to her, oh, just a tiny bit. with her blessed powers of imagination and with what beryl had told her from time to time concerning him, she could put everything together into a beautiful picture. dale was splendid and brave--_he_ had not been afraid of being poor! and he dreamed, too, like sir galahad, but a dream of machinery. and he had had a beautiful light in his face when he had said that about his shoulders being broad enough to support his family. oh, robin wished she could see him in a scarlet coat like sir galahad wore in the picture. the snowstorm abating, robin sent williams to the village with a basket of flowers for mrs. lynch and fruit for big danny, and williams brought back a tenderly grateful little note from mrs. lynch--but not a word from beryl. "everything must be all right or she'd have told me," robin assured herself. "anyway mr. norris would be _afraid_ to arrest anyone like dale." what robin did _not_ know--for it was not likely to disturb the manor--was that something far crueller than norris was claiming the anxiety of the mill workers. a malignant epidemic had lifted its ugly head and had crept stealthily into several homes, claiming its victims in more than one. norris feared an epidemic more than labor trouble; unless it could be quickly stamped out it gave the mills a bad name and made it difficult to get hands. so, at its first appearance he called the mill doctor into consultation, and urged him to do everything in his power to check the advance of the disease. the mill doctor, an overworked man, wanted to tell norris that it was a pity that the whole "old village" had not gone up in smoke, but he refrained from doing so; instead spoke optimistically of the weather being in their favor, and went away. on an afternoon three weeks after beryl's sudden and inexplainable departure, the drowsy quiet of the old manor was broken by a shrill voice lifted in frenzied protest against harkness' deeper tones. it brought percival tubbs from his nap, mrs. budge from the pantry and robin from the library. there in the hall stood poor little susy, her old cap pushed back from her flaming cheeks, her eyes dark with fright, struggling to escape from harkness' tight hold. at sight of robin her voice broke into a strangling sob. "oh! oh! _oh!_" "she won't tell me her errand," explained harkness, looking like a guilty schoolboy caught in a bully's act. "harkness, shame on you! let her go," cried robin. freed from harkness' hold susy ran to robin and clasped her knees. she was shaking so violently that she could do nothing more than make funny, incoherent sounds which were lost in the folds of robin's skirt. "see how you've frightened her! susy-girl, don't. _don't_. you're with the big girl. tell me, what is the matter?" suddenly susy pulled at robin's hand and, still sobbing, dragged her resolutely toward the door. robin caught something about "granny." "something dreadful must have happened to frighten her," robin declared to the others. "won't you tell robin, susy? do you want robin to go with you to granny's?" at this susy nodded violently, but when robin moved to get her wraps she burst forth in renewed wailing and clung tightly to robin's hand. "harkness, please get my coat and hat and overshoes. i'm going back with susy. something's happened--" "miss gordon, indeed, you better not--" implored harkness. "hurry! haven't you tormented the poor child enough? don't stand there like wood. if you don't get my things _at once_ i'll go bareheaded!" harkness went off muttering and percival tubbs advanced a protest which robin did not even hear, so concerned was she in soothing poor susy. in a few moments she was hurrying down the winding drive which led to the village, with difficulty keeping up with susy, leaving behind in the great hall of the manor an annoyed tutor, a worried butler and an outraged housekeeper. more than one on the village street turned to stare at the strange little couple, susy, pale with fright, two spots of angry red burning her cheeks, running as though possessed, and robin limping after her with amazing speed and utterly indifferent to anyone she met. as they neared the old village susy's pace suddenly slowed down and robin took advantage of that to ask her more concerning granny. "granny's queer and all cold and she won't speak to me, she won't!" susy managed to impart between gasps. a terrible fear gripped robin. perhaps granny was dead! and her apprehension was confirmed when a neighbor of the castles rushed out to head her off. "don't go in there! don't go in there!" she cried, waving the shawl she had caught up to wrap around her head. "they've got the sickness. the old woman's dead. tommy's staying at welch's. my man's reportin' it this mornin'. poor old woman, went off easy, i guess, but it's hard on the kid. say, miss, you oughtn' get close to her. it's awful catchin' and you c'n tell by the look o' her she's got it, too." and the neighbor edged away from susy. in a sort of stupefied horror robin looked at the neighbor, the wretched house and susy. susy had begun to cry again, quietly, and to tremble violently. "susy castle, you go like a good girl into the house n' stay 'til the doctor comes and takes you," commanded the woman. "don' you come near anyone! y' got the sickness! see y' shake!" "go _'way_!" screamed susy, clinging to robin. robin pulled her fur from her throat and wrapped it about the shivering, sobbing child. "yer takin' awful chances, miss--just _awful_," warned the neighbor, edging backward toward her house with the air of having completed her duty. "if y' take my advice you'll leave the kid there 'til some'un comes. they'll likely take her t' the poor-house!" and with this cheerful assumption she slammed her door. "there! there! robin'll take you home. don't cry," begged robin, kneeling in the path and encircling poor little susy in her arms. "we'll go back to the big house and robin'll make you nice and warm." "i want granny!" wailed the child, feeling her miserable little world rocking about her. robin straightened and looked at the house. granny was dead, the neighbor had said; nothing more could be done for her. but something in the desolation of the place, the boarded door, the dingy window stuffed with its rags, smote robin. poor granny must have died all alone. no one had even whispered a good-bye. and she lay in there all alone. robin knew little of death; to her it had always meant a beautiful passing to somewhere, with lovely flowers and music and gentle grief. this was horribly different--there was no one left but little susy and she was going to take susy away at once. ought she not to just go softly into that house and do _something_--something kind and courteous that granny, somewhere above, might see--and like? "wait here, susy. i'll be back in a moment." she walked resolutely around to the door which susy, in her flight, had left half-open. at the threshold a cold dread seized her, sending shivers racing down her spine, catching her breath, bringing out tiny beads of moisture on her forehead. she had never seen a dead person--had she the courage? she tiptoed softly into the room, her eyes staring straight ahead. in its centre she stopped and looked slowly, slowly around as though dragging her gaze to the object she dreaded--across the littered table, the cupboard, the stove crowded with unwashed pots and pans, the dirty floor, an overturned chair, the smoke-blackened lamp and last--last to the bed. there, amid the tumbled quilts, lay poor granny. robin swallowed what she knew was her heart and walked to the bed. "granny," she said softly, because she had to say something, then almost screamed in terror at the sound of her own voice. strangely enough there was a smile on the worn, thin lips. in her high-strung condition robin thought it had just come--she liked to _think_ it had just come. it gave her courage. she smoothed the dirty gray covers and folded them neatly across the still form, careful not to touch the withered hands. then she looked about. her eyes lit on the faded pink flowers that still adorned the what-not. moving with frightened speed she caught them up and carefully laid them on granny's breast. "they were beautiful once and so was poor granny. good-bye, granny," she whispered, moving backward toward the door. out in the air she leaned for a moment weakly against the door jamb--then resolutely pulled herself together, and carefully closed the door behind her. susy stood where she had left her. "come, susy, let's hurry," robin cried. catching the child's hand she broke into a run, wondering if she could get back to the manor before that dreadful sickening thing inside of her quite overcame her. but at that moment williams appeared in the automobile, jumped from the seat and caught robin just as she started to drop in a little heap to the ground. "miss robin!" he cried in alarm. the feel of his strong arms and the warmth and shelter of his great coat sent the life surging back through robin's veins. she laughed hysterically. "take us home, quick," she implored. and so concerned was williams that he made no protest at lifting susy into the car. both harkness and mrs. budge, with different feelings, were waiting williams' return in the hall of the manor. harkness, with real concern, (he had despatched williams) and mrs. budge with defiance. she had just announced that she'd stood about as much as any woman "who'd give her whole life to the forsyths ought t' be expected to stand" when robin half-carried susy into the manor. "harkness, _please_--susy's very ill. will you carry her to my room and call the doctor?" "you'll do no such thing while _i_ stay in this house," announced mrs. budge, stepping forward and placing her bulk between harkness and susy. "bringing this fever what's in the village to _this_ house! not if my name's hannah budge. we've had just 'bout as much of these common carryings-on as i'll stand for with madame away and--" "but, oh, _please_, mrs. budge, susy's very sick and her grandmother's just died and she's all alone! harkness, _won't_ you?" "oh, missy, i think budge--" began harkness, his eyes imploring. robin stamped her foot. "shame on you all! you're just _afraid_. will you call a doctor at least--one of you? get out of my way!" and half carrying--half dragging susy, robin staggered to the stairs and slowly up them. poor robin vaguely remembered jimmie once commanding mrs. ferrari to put one of her brood into a tub of hot water into which he mixed mustard. so robin filled her gleaming tub with hot water and quickly undressed susy and put her, wailing, into it. then she rushed to the pantry, commandeered a yellow box, fled back and dropped a generous portion of its contents into the tub. next she spread a soft woolly blanket on her bed, wrapped another around the child and rolled her in both until nothing but the tip of a pink nose showed. she found harkness hovering outside in the hall and ordered him to bring hot lemonade at once, taking it a few minutes later from him through the half-open door with a gleam of contempt in her eyes which said plainly "coward." she slowly fed susy, watching the child's face anxiously and wishing the doctor would come quickly. after an interminable time dr. brown came, a little shaky, and gray-eyed and very concerned over his call to the manor. after a careful examination he reported to percival tubbs and harkness that the child was, indeed, desperately ill; that by no means could she be moved--although it was of course a pity that miss forsyth had so impulsively brought her to the manor and thus exposed herself; that the crisis might come within the next twenty-four hours, for evidently the disease was well advanced before the grandmother succumbed; that he would telegraph at once for a fresh nurse from new york as the one in the village was at the breaking point from overwork; and that he, himself, would come back and stay with the child through the night. it was a most dreadful night for everyone in the manor--except percival tubbs, who had slipped quietly to the station and taken the evening train to new york. harkness sat outside of robin's door, his ear strained for the slightest sound within. and mrs. budge worked far into the night writing a letter to cornelius allendyce, commanding that gentleman to come to the manor and see for himself how things were going and put an end, once and for all, to the whole nonsense--that she'd up and walk out if it weren't for her loyalty to madame forsyth, a loyalty sadly strained in the last few months. of course she did not write all this in just these same words but she made her meaning very clear. behind the closed door dr. brown and robin fought for the little life. only once the tired doctor said more than a few words--then it was to tell robin that she had shown remarkable judgment in her care of susy and that--if the child pulled through--it would be due entirely to her prompt and thorough action. this little thought helped robin through the long hours, when her weary eyelids stuck over her hot, dry eyes and her head ached. all night she willingly fetched and carried at the doctor's command, stepping noiselessly, sometimes lingering at the foot of the bed to watch the little face for a sign of change. far into the morning the vigil lasted. then dr. brown, his face haggard but his eyes shining, whispered to robin to go off downstairs and eat a good breakfast--that susy was "better." "you mean--she'll--get well?" the doctor nodded. "i believe so. she's sleeping now. go, my dear." robin peeped at the child's face. the deadly pallor and the purple flush of fever had gone, the lips and eyelids had relaxed into the natural repose of sleep. she tiptoed into the hall, deserted for the moment, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. mrs. budge turned as she pushed open the door. "i--i--" the warm, sweet smell of the room sent everything dancing before robin's eyes. she reached out her hand as though groping for support. "oh, i--" then she crumpled into mrs. budge's arms. now that faithful soul, having sent off her letter to the lawyer-man, had given herself over to worry, lest once more the "curse" was to visit the house of forsyth. not that it could mean much to madame, for she hadn't set eyes on this girl gordon, but it gave her, hannah budge, a sick feeling "at the pit of her stomach" to think of things going wrong again! so when robin just dropped into her arms like a dead little thing she stood as one stunned, passively awaiting a relentless fate. "quick--she's fainted. let me take her! fetch water," ordered harkness. "fetch it yourself! i guess i can hold her!" retorted budge, tightening her clasp. and as she looked down at robin she remembered how robin had kissed her on christmas night. something within her that was hard like rock commenced to soften and soften and grow warm and glow all through her. her eyes filled with tears and because both hands were occupied and she could not wipe them away, she shook her head and two bright drops rolled down her cheeks into robin's face. at that moment--even before harkness brought his water--robin stirred and opened her eyes and smiled. "oh--where am i? oh--yes. oh, i'm _so_ hungry!" but budge was certain robin was desperately ill; under her direction harkness carried her to madame's own room while mrs. budge followed with blankets and a hot water bottle. at noon the nurse arrived from new york, and that evening the word spread to every corner of wassumsic that little miss forsyth had the "sickness." chapter xx robin's beginning robin had done something that couldn't be counted--or spurned--in dollars and cents. from door to door in the village the story spread; how robin had gone into the stricken cottage which even the neighbors shunned, and had performed a last little act (and the only one) of respect for poor old granny, then, with her own fur around the child's neck, had taken susy back to the manor. the doctor told of robin's sensible care and how ably she had shared with him the night's long vigil. the story was told and re-told with little embellishments and often tears; the girls in the mill repeated each detail of it over their lunches, the men talked about it in low tones as they walked homeward. and robin's little service had a remarkable effect upon the mill people. tongues that had been most bitter against the house of forsyth suddenly wagged loudest in robin's praise; some boldly foretold the beginning of a "better day." all felt the stirring of a certain, all-promising belief that a forsyth, even though a small one--"cared." but what was to be the cost, they asked one another, with anxious faces? upon hearing that robin herself was ill, beryl had rushed to the manor, in an agony of fear. robin mustn't be sick--she couldn't die! it was too dreadful--she ought never to have gone into granny castle's house--or touched susy. among the books robin loved so well beryl waited in a dumb misery for hours, for some word. harkness only shook his old head at her and mrs. budge ignored her. finally, standing the suspense as long as she could she crept to the stairs and up them and in the hall above encountered a cherry-faced white-garbed young woman. "may i see robin, please?" she implored desperately. the young woman looked at her, hesitating. "are you beryl?" she asked. beryl nodded. "then you may go in for a few moments but don't let that old man and woman know--they've been hounding me to let them see her and i've refused flatly." "oh, thank you so much. there's something i have to tell robin before--" beryl simply could not say it. she closed her lips with tragic meaning. the nurse stared at her a moment with a hint of a laugh in her eyes, then nodded toward the door. "second door, there. only a minute!" and then she went on. beryl opened the door, softly, her heart pounding against her ribs. what if robin were too ill to talk, to even listen-- beryl had never seen madame's bed room. it took a moment for her to single out the great canopied bed from the other mammoth furnishings--or to take in the small figure that occupied the exact centre of that bed. "beryl!" came a glad cry and beryl stared in amazement for the little creature who smiled at her from a pile of soft pillows looked like anything but a sick person; the vivid hair glowed with more aliveness than ever, a pink, like the inner heart of a rose, tinted the creamy skin. a tray remained on a low table by the bed, its piled dishes indicative of a feast. beryl's amazed eyes flashed last to these then back to robin's smiling face. "oh, beryl, i'm so glad, _glad_ you came!" robin reached out her arms and beryl rushed into them, clasping her own close about robin. "i--i thought you were dreadfully sick," she gasped, at last. she drew back and looked at robin accusingly. "_everyone_ thinks you're dreadfully sick." "then i suppose i ought to be," laughed robin, "i'm not, though, i never felt better in my life. but, oh, right after i knew susy would get well everything inside of me seemed to break into little pieces. then that nice miss sanford came and put me to bed and nursed and petted and fed me and--here i am. she says i cannot get up until tomorrow. i'm so anxious to see susy!" beryl, still holding robin's hand, stared off into space, uncomfortably. she had come to the manor to tell robin (before robin should die) that she had been a mean, selfish, ungrateful thing to run away from the manor the way she had done and stay away--and to beg for robin's forgiveness. now she found it difficult to say all this to a pinky, glowing robin, and robin, instinctively guessing what was passing in beryl's mind, made her plea for forgiveness unnecessary by asking, with a tight squeeze of beryl's hand: "you won't go away, again?" "no--at least--if you want me--if--" she stumbled. "_if_ i want you--beryl lynch! it was too dreadful living here all alone with only mr. tubbs and harkness and mrs. budge. but, beryl, i think maybe everything will be different now; the first thing i knew after i fainted was that mrs. budge was crying! think of it, beryl, _crying_--and over me! and mr. tubbs ran away." "really, truly?" "yes--the poor thing was scared silly. he didn't tell a soul he was going and after he reached new york he telephoned." "dale says everyone at the mills is talking about you, robin--and what you did." "why," robin's face sobered, "i didn't do--anything." "well, dale says your going in to poor old granny the way you did has made everyone like you. and they were getting awfully worked up against the forsyths and the mills. i will admit it seems funny to me--making such a fuss over such a little thing. i wish--as long as you're all right now--you had done something real heroic, like jumping into the river to save someone or going into a burning building." "oh, i'd have never had the courage to do _that_," protested robin, shuddering. at that moment the nurse put her head in the door. "three minutes are up," she warned. "please, can't she stay?" begged robin, in alarm. "i must go home, anyway, robin, to tell mother. you have no idea how anxious she is--everyone is. people hang around our door. i suppose they think we have the latest news about you. well, we have, now. and, robin--mother was awfully angry about my--leaving you the way i did. she begged me to come back, long ago. i'm sorry, now, i didn't. good-bye, robin. i'll be back, tomorrow." beryl walked to the village in a deep absorption of thought. certain values she had fostered had tumbled about and had to be put in order. here were not only hundreds of mill folk making a "fuss" over what robin had done, but the household of the manor as well--old budge, usually as adamant as a brick wall, crying! no one loved the heroic more than beryl, but to her thinking it lay in a spectacular, and with a dramatic indifference, risking one's own life for another, not in a little unnecessary sentimental impulse. when she had heard of what robin had done she had declared her "crazy" to go near the castles, to which her mother had indignantly replied: "and are you thinking the blessed child ever thinks of herself at all?" _that_ was the quality, of course, about robin that you never guessed from anything she said but that you just felt. and the mill people were feeling it now. turning these thoughts over and over, beryl suddenly faced the disturbing conviction that she was moulding her own young life on very opposite lines. tell herself as often as she liked--and it was often--that she'd had to fight to get everything she had and to keep it, she knew that it never crossed her mind to ask herself what she was giving--to dale, who carried a double burden, to poor big danny, to her brave little mother who had sheltered her so valiantly from the coarsening things about her that she might keep "fine" and have "fine" things. the next day the nurse let robin dress, to poor harkness' tearful delight. and robin, roaming the house as though she had returned to it from a long absence, found, indeed, the change she had prophesied. for mrs. budge, in strangely genial mood, was fussily preparing more delectable invalid dishes than a dozen convalescing susies or well robins could possibly eat. one little cloud, however, shadowed budge's relief. she wished she hadn't sent the letter to the lawyer-man. "if i'd remembered how my grandmother always said to look out for the written word, and held my tongue," she mourned and so complete was her transformation that she forgot she had written that letter while in full pursuit of her duty to the forsyths--as she had seen it then. upon this new order of things cornelius allendyce arrived, unheralded, and very tired from a long journey. budge's letter had been forwarded to him at miami where he had been pleasantly recuperating from his siege of sciatica. it had disturbed him tremendously, and he had spent the long hours on the railroad train upbraiding himself for his neglect of his ward. the conditions at which budge had clumsily hinted grew more serious as he thought of them, until he found himself wondering if perhaps he ought not to smuggle his little ward back to her fifth-floor home before madame discovered the havoc she had made of the forsyth traditions. outwardly, the manor appeared the same, to the lawyer's intense relief. within, the most startling change seemed the laughing voices that floated out to him from the library. harkness took his coat and hat and bag a little excitedly and with repeated nods toward the library. "miss robin'll be mighty glad to see you, i'm sure; but she has a lydy guest for dinner." "the man actually acts as though i had no right to come unannounced," thought cornelius allendyce. robin met him with a rush and a glad little cry. "i thought you were never, _never_ coming! i'm so glad. but why didn't you send us word? i want you to know beryl's mother and beryl. they're my best friends. and, oh, i have _so_ much to tell you!" "mrs. lynch!" a line of budge's letter flashed across the man's mind, yet he found himself talking to a gentle-faced woman with grave eyes and a tender, merry mouth. and beryl (whom budge had called "that young person") did not seem at all coarse or unwholesome. he did not notice that the clothes both wore were simple and inexpensive--he only registered the impression that the mother seemed quiet and refined and the girl had a frank honesty in her face that was most pleasing. robin, indeed, had so much to tell him that he made no effort to get "head or tail" to it; rather he lost himself in wonder at the change in his little ward. this spirited, assured young person could not be the same little thing he had left months ago. she'd actually grown, too. he laughed at robin's description of the desertion of percival tubbs. "poor man, i guess i'd driven him crazy, anyway. i simply couldn't learn the lessons he gave me. but, oh, i haven't wasted my time, truly, for i've gotten more out of these precious books here than i ever got out of school. guardian dear, _they've_ made me grow. i don't think my pretend stories any more, either. i can't seem to, for everything about me is so real and so big and so--so important." robin imparted this information with a serious note in her voice--as though she feared her guardian might be sorry that she had put her childish "pretends" behind her. "dear me," he said, "then we won't know whether you meet the prince in the last chapter and live happily ever after? you _have_ grown up; i can't get used to it." robin blushed furiously at this and changed the subject lest her guardian could glimpse under her flaming hair and guess the one pretty "pretend" she still cherished. while the girls were upstairs mrs. lynch told cornelius allendyce the story of susy, and robin's visit to the old house. she told it simply but in its every detail so that robin's guardian could follow it very closely. he listened, with his eyes dropped to the rug at his feet, and for a few moments he kept them there, so that mrs. lynch wondered if he were angry. then suddenly he looked at her and a smile broke over his face. "our little girl's letting down a few barriers, isn't she?" he asked, and mrs. lynch, understanding him with her quick instinct, nodded with bright eyes. "ah, 'tis true as true what my old father murphy once said to me--that wealth is what you give, not what you get!" the most amazing thing to the lawyer in the new order was the cheerful importance, and the new geniality of hannah budge. accustomed as he was, from long acquaintance with the family, to her sour nature, he caught himself watching her now in a sort of unbelief. he understood her attentiveness to his comfort when she touched his arm and begged a word with him. "it's about that letter," she whispered, her eyes rolling around for any possible eavesdropper. "i'll ask you not to tell miss gordon nor timothy harkness. i'm old and new ways are new ways but i'll serve miss gordon as i've always served the forsyths." a dignity in the old housekeeper's surrender touched cornelius allendyce. he patted her shoulder and told her not to worry about the letter; to be sure it had spoiled a rather nice golf match but he ought to have run up to wassumsic long before. "the little girl i found isn't such a bad forsyth, after all?" he could not resist asking her, however. but harkness, appearing at that moment, spared mrs. budge the unaccustomed humiliation of admitting she had been wrong. after dinner robin persuaded her guardian to walk with them to the village while they escorted "mother lynch" home, and then stop at the house of laughter. there, beryl lighted the lamps and robin led a tour of inspection through the rooms, telling her guardian as they went, of her beautiful plans and their failure. at a warning sign from beryl she regretfully left out the generous contribution of their mysterious queen of altruria. most of the furniture, she explained, had come from the manor garrets. while they were talking a knock sounded at the door. robin opened it to find sophie mack and three companions standing on the threshold. "mrs. lynch said she thought you were up here," sophie explained, awkwardly. "we're getting up a social club and we want to know if you'll let us meet here." "of course you can meet here!" robin made no effort to control the surprise in her voice. "that's what this little house is for." "maybe you'll join, sometime. as an honorary member or something like that--" one of sophie's companions broke in. "oh, i'd love to." "we want to pay, you know," persisted sophie. "of course--anything you--think you can." the girls, refusing robin's invitation to go into the cottage, turned and went back to the village. robin closed the door and leaned against it with a long-drawn breath of delight. "guardian dear, _that's_ the beginning. dale's right--they'll use it, if i let them pay. why are you laughing at me?" cornelius allendyce's face sobered. he drew the girl to him. "i'm not laughing. i'm only marvelling at the leaps and bounds with which your education has gone forward. some people die at an old age without acquiring one smallest part of the human understanding you are learning through these--notions--of yours." robin made a little face. "notions! beryl calls them 'crazy ideas.' _someone else_ called them an 'experiment.' dear mother lynch is the _only_ one who really believes in what i want to do. you see, i just want the people here to think that a forsyth cares whether they're happy or not. dale says i didn't start right and maybe i didn't--but anyway--"--she nodded toward the door as though sophie might still be on the threshold, "_they're_ a beginning!" her guardian did not answer this and looked so strange that robin went no further in her confidences. perhaps something had displeased him, she must wait until some other time to tell him about dale and his model and her visit to frank norris. back in the library, before the crackling fire, robin begged beryl to play for her guardian. "she's wonderful," she whispered while beryl was getting the violin. "she makes you feel all funny inside." beryl stood in the shadow and played. robin, watching her guardian, thrilled with satisfaction when the man's face betrayed that he, too, felt "all funny inside" under the magic of beryl's bow. "come here, my girl," he commanded when beryl stopped. he bent a searching look upon her. "come here and sit down and tell me about yourself." "didn't i say she's wonderful?" chirped robin, triumphantly. the lawyer's adroit questioning brought out beryl's story--of the simple home in the tenement from which her mother shut out all that was coarsening and degrading, stirring her child's mind and her tastes with dreams she persistently cherished against disheartening odds; of the belgian musician who had first taught her small fingers and fired her ambitions for only the best in the art; of school and the lessons she devoured because she craved knowledge and the advantages of possessing it. "how long have you lived here?" "we came last summer. dale wanted to work where there were machines and he got a job in the forsyth mills." "you are planning to go back to new york and study?" beryl's face clouded. "sometime. but i can't until i earn the money, and it takes such a lot." "yes, and courage, too," added the lawyer softly, as though he were speaking to himself. beryl abruptly lifted her violin from her lap to put it in the case. as she did so, its head caught in the string of green beads which, in honor of the occasion, she was wearing. the slender cord that held them snapped and the pretty beads scattered over the floor. "oh, dear!" cried beryl, dismayed, dropping to her knees to find them. robin helped her search and in a few moments they had gathered them all. "they're only beads but they're very old and a keepsake," beryl explained, in apology for her moment's alarm. "they're pretty and they're darling on you!" "a wonderful color." the lawyer took one and examined it. "if you care for them you'd better let me take them back to new york with me and have them strung on a wire that will not break." "oh, let him, beryl. and he can have a good clasp put on. you know you said that clasp was poor." beryl hesitated a moment. ought she to tell him the beads were her mother's and that her mother prized them dearly? no, he might laugh at anyone's caring a fig about just plain beads. she took the envelope robin brought her, dropped the beads into it, sealed it, and gave it to robin's guardian. cornelius allendyce slept little that night. he laid it to the extreme quiet of the hills; in reality his head whirled with the amazing impressions that had been forced upon him. "extraordinary!" he muttered, staring at the night light. and he repeated it again and again; once, when he thought of the little woman, mrs. lynch, with the dreaming eyes which seemed to see beyond things. what was the absurd thing she had said? "'tis what you give and not what you get is wealth." extraordinary! and where had robin picked up these notions concerning the mill people? and her house of what-did-she-call-it? there was considerable significance about it. uncanny, downright uncanny, though, for a girl her age to have such a far-reaching vision. probably the child didn't realize, herself. well, there was jeanne d'arc, and others, too, he pondered, hazily. and this talented girl robin had found--a most unusual girl, who'd grown up in a tenement like a flower among weeds, yes, he'd seen such flowers growing amid rankest vegetation! she was not unlike robin, herself. his mind circled to robin's own little fifth-floor nest and the horrible odors of that dark stairway. strange, extraordinary, that these two lives had crossed. "this world's a queer world!" both girls brought up in a poverty that denied them all those jolly sort of advantages young girls liked, and yet each sheltered by a mother's great love from the things in poverty that coarsen and hurt. "aye, a mother's love," and the little lawyer thought of "mother lynch" with something very akin to reverence; and of jimmie, too, poor jimmie, who, in his stumbling, mistaken way, had tried to give a mother's love to robin. but suddenly the man aroused from his absorbed philosophizing and sat bolt upright in bed. all right to think about letting down barriers--whose barriers were they? proud old madame loved those barriers--and she'd never accept, as budge had, what budge called the "new ways." what then? "there'll be a reckoning--" with a sharp little exclamation of annoyance the distraught guardian drew his watch from under his pillow and held it to the tiny shaft of light. "half-past-one!" well, he did not need to cross that bridge until he came to it! he dug his tired head into his pillow and went to sleep to dream of madame forsyth and robin and jeanne d'arc sitting in a social club at the house of laughter. chapter xxi at the granger mills "i really think, little miss robin, that you ought to go." "why, i should think you'd be _crazy_ to go!" "if i may be so bold's to remind you, the man is waiting for an answer." robin looked from her guardian's face to beryl's to harkness'. "you're all conspiring against me, i do believe!" she cried. "i'll go if you say i ought to, but i just hate to. i don't want to meet the young people, there. and i'm dreadfully afraid of mrs. granger since susy spoiled her dress." "mrs. granger was one of your aunt mathilde's closest friends--until the death of young christopher. then, in the strange mood your aunt encouraged, she let the intimacy drop. i've often wondered if the grangers did not resent that. you have an opportunity now, robin, to restore the old terms between the two families, so that when your--aunt returns she will find the old tie awaiting her." robin stared, wide-eyed, at her guardian. it was the first time he had spoken of her aunt's return. "when is my aunt coming back? do you know i never _think_ of her coming back? isn't that dreadful? i know she won't like me--" "don't let's worry about that now," broke in cornelius allendyce with suspicious haste. and harkness, standing stiffly by the table, waiting instructions, fell suddenly to rearranging the books and magazines which had been in perfect order. mrs. granger's chauffeur had brought a note to the manor asking robin to make them a few days' visit during the coming week. "my son and daughter have some young people here and you will find it a lively change from the quiet of your aunt's." robin used her last argument. "but you've only been here for a few days, guardian dear. and there's a _lot_ more i want to tell you--oh, that's very important." "can't it wait until i come again? i'd have to go back to new york tomorrow, my dear, anyway. come, this little visit of yours is as necessary to your education as a forsyth as any of mr. tubbs' tiresome lessons. and then, as i said, you can win back my lady granger's affection." "well, i'll go," cried robin, in such a miserable voice that beryl gave her a little shake. beryl saw in the visit all kinds of adventure. first, robin must keep her eyes open and determine whether miss alicia granger still mourned for young christopher or whether she was faithless to his memory. then there'd be the young people, probably from new york, with all kinds of new clothes and new slang and new stories of that happy whirl in which beryl fancied all young people of wealth lived. and then there was the son, tom. and robin could wear the white and silver georgette dress. "i wish it were you going instead of me," robin mourned, not at all encouraged by beryl's enthusiasm. "you're so tall and pretty, beryl, and can always think of things to say." there shone, however, one bright ray in all the gloom--the granger home, harkness had said, was only a mile from the granger mills. adam kraus and dale had spoken of the granger mills as though they were almost perfect. she wanted to see them, at least, on the outside. with a heart so heavy that she scarcely noticed the sheen of soft green with which the early spring had dressed the hills, robin arrived at wyckham, the granger home, at tea time. she was only conscious of a wide, low door, level with the bricked terrace, flanked by stone seats; that this door opened and revealed a circle of merry-voiced young people gathered around a great fireplace. as the impressive under-butler took her bags from williams one of the group rose quickly and came toward her. she was very tall and slender with an oval-shaped face and a prominent nose like mrs. granger's. robin knew she was miss alicia. she answered something unintelligible to miss alicia's informal greeting and let herself be drawn into the circle. there were four girls, ranging in age anywhere from sixteen to twenty--three very pretty, obviously conscious of their modish garments and wanting everyone else to be conscious of them, too; another, rosalyn crane, tall and tanned and strong in limb and shoulder, with frank dark eyes and red lips which smiled and displayed regular, gleaming-white teeth. robin liked her best, and rosalyn crane felt this and promptly tucked robin under her wing. for the next several hours life moved forward for robin at such a dizzying pace that she felt as though she were sitting apart from her body and watching her flesh-and-bones do things they had never dreamed of doing before; the noisy tea-circle, the room she shared with the nice girl, the casual welcome from mrs. granger, the georgette and silver dress and the silver slippers that matched, the beautiful drawing room so alive with color and jollity, the long table gleaming with crystal and silver, the voices, voices, (everyone's but hers) the bare shoulders and the bright eyes and the red, red cheeks, the japanese servants, velvet-footed, the big, hot-house strawberries, music and dancing, (everyone dancing but her) and then, at last, bed. out of the whirl stood two pleasant moments: one when mr. granger had spoken to her, the other--tom. mr. granger had a kind face, all criss-crossed with fine lines that curved up when he smiled. he patted her on the shoulder and said: "a forsyth girl, eh?" and made robin feel that he liked her. and she was not afraid of him and answered easily and not in the tongue-tied way she spoke to miss alicia and her friends. and tom granger looked like his father. he had a jolly way of talking, too, and talked mostly to rosalyn crane. he had sat between her and robin at dinner and had made robin feel quite comfortable by acting as though they were old acquaintances and did not need to keep up a fire of banter like the others. the next morning robin came downstairs to find the house deserted except for the noiseless butlers who stared at her as though she were some strange freak. apparently no one stirred before noon, for tom, coming in from the garage, greeted her with a pleasant: "say, you're an early bird, aren't you?" and then directed one of the butlers to bring her some breakfast in the sun-room. "_you've_ got some sense. al's crowd will miss half of this glorious day!" he commented, leading robin into a glass-enclosed room, in the centre of which splashed a jolly fountain. tom sat with her while she ate the breakfast the jap brought on a lacquered tray. he kept up a fire of breezy talk just as though she were the nice rosalyn crane. it was mostly about the baseball nine at hotchkiss, of which he was manager, and the new golf holes and an inter-school swimming match and such things, concerning which poor robin knew nothing, but he was so boyish and jolly that robin did not feel in the least shy or awkward. "say, don't you want to go with me while i try out my new car? the road toward cornwall is good and i've bet that i can get her up to sixty. great morning, too. are you game?" robin felt game for anything that would take her away from miss alicia's friends--except rosalyn. tom took her back to the garage and tucked her into half of the low seat and climbed in beside her. for the next two hours they tore back and forth over the cornwall road at a pace that caught robin's breath in her throat. occasionally tom talked, but most of the time he bent over the wheel, his eyes on the road ahead with a frenzied challenge in them, as though the innocent stretch of macadam was prey for his vengeance. just outside of the town he slowed the car down to a snail's pace. "some baby, isn't she?" he asked and at robin's perplexed eyes he went off into rollicking laughter. "why she _eats_ the road! dad said i couldn't get it out of her. i'll tell the world. whew!" robin sat forward, suddenly alert. "are those the mills?" "yep." they were not so very unlike the forsyth mills--brick walls, dust, dirt, smoke, towering chimneys, and noise, noise. but beyond them and the river were rows of neat little white cottages, each with a yard, already green. "best mills in new england. but dad's prouder of his model village--as mother calls those cottages over there--than of his profit sheet. and look at the school--dad wanted a school good enough for his own son and daughter, but mother wouldn't let us go. i wish she had--i'll bet there's enough good batting material right in this town to whip every nine in this part of the country. there's dad's library, too--" but robin did not heed the direction of his nod. she had suddenly seen something that made her heart leap into her throat; adam kraus walking into the office building carrying the square box with the leather handles, which she knew contained dale's model. he was taking it to mr. granger. a panic gripped robin. she must do something to save that model for the forsyth mills--she did not know just what, but _something_-- "stop, oh, stop. couldn't i see your--father? i'd _like_ to." tom looked puzzled, but good-naturedly turned the car. robin climbed out with amazing speed. "take me to his office, oh, _please_ take me," she begged, with such earnestness that tom wondered if she'd gone "clean dotty." inside the office building there was no sign of adam kraus, for the reason, though robin did not know it, that it was his second visit; he was there by appointment, and he had used a stairway that led directly to mr. granger's office, while tom took robin through the main office where a neatly dressed girl blocked their way. mr. granger was busy but the young lady could wait, this efficient young person informed them, quite indifferent to the fact that she addressed thomas granger and gordon forsyth. and robin walked into an enclosure, half consulting room, half waiting room, and sat down with fast beating heart, upon a leather and mahogany chair. "i'll wait out here 'til you see dad," tom told her, to her relief, and she heard him telling one of the clerks how his "baby" could make sixty as easy-- suddenly robin took in other voices, one deep, one soft and drawling. a door at the end of the room stood half-open. she leaned toward it, alertly listening. "and you say this invention is your own, kraus? have you your patents?" "my applications have all gone in and i have some of the patents. yes, sir, it's my own." "doran reported very favorably. with one or two changes--suppose we find doran, now." there came the sound of a chair scraping backward. "oh, the model will be quite safe here. i want doran to point out one or two things on our new loom. it will only take a moment. then we'll bring him back here." oh, would they come out through the waiting-room--thought robin, shrinking back. and what had adam kraus said? but mr. granger had opened another door--robin heard it close. she stepped noiselessly toward that half-open door at the end of the room. her head was clear, her heart atingle. he, adam kraus, had _dared_ to say the invention was his! the wicked man, the traitor--to betray dale's trust, his friendship! the office was quite empty. and on the big desk, amid a litter of papers and letters and books and ledgers, stood the little model in its clumsy box. robin caught it up and held it close to her, defiantly. she snatched a pencil and scrawled a few lines on the back of an envelope, then she tiptoed out into the consulting office and on through the main office. tom was waiting at the end of the room. it seemed to robin as though hundreds of eyes accused her; in reality only a few lifted from the work of the day to stare at the young girl tom granger had brought to see his father. and if anyone wondered why she carried the queer box, no one of them was likely to presume to question any friend of the grangers. "did y'see dad?" but tom, to robin's relief, took that for granted and turned back to his acquaintance among the clerks. "i'll take you out with me and _prove_ it to you!" robin wanted to beg tom to run but she did not dare. he asked to carry the box and she let him, for fear, if she refused, he might suspect something. queer shivers raced up and down her spine and a dreadful sinking feeling attacked her heart and dragged at her throat so that she could scarcely speak. he helped her into the car and climbed in himself. he leisurely experimented with the gears, until robin almost screamed in her anxiety. then just as he started the motor, a shout hailed them from the office door, and both turned to see adam kraus tearing down the steps bareheaded, wildly waving his arms, followed by a half-dozen clerks and mr. granger, himself. "go! _go!_" implored robin, catching his arm, and so frightened rang her voice that tom instinctively obeyed and stepped on the accelerator with such force that the car shot forward. "oh, _faster! faster!_" she sobbed. "_he's coming._" a backward glance had told her that adam kraus intended to give chase; still bareheaded, he had jumped into a ford standing in the road. "well, i don't know what we're running away from, but my baby can give anything on wheels a good go-by!" laughed tom, his eyes keen. he leaned over the wheel, his face fixed on the road with its "eat-her-up" tensity. they turned into the cornwall road. at a rise robin saw the other car with its bareheaded driver tearing after them. "oh, he's coming," she moaned, sinking down into the seat. "say, miss forsyth----i'm keen----on--running----away--but what--the--deuce--from? who's that----fellow----following--us----why are you----afraid?" he flung the words jerkily, sideways, at robin. "i'll tell you--afterwards," robin gasped back. the wind whistled past her, she lost her hat. she crouched in her seat, her hands clinging tightly to the box, her head turned as though expecting their pursuer to overtake them any moment. suddenly tom frowned. at the same time the engine gave a grating "b-r-r-r." "oh, what is it?" "oil's getting low----bad----" she caught in answer. "pulling some----i'll----fool him, though--" he slowed down. "don't--" implored robin. "we'll turn down this road. _he'll_ go straight on. clever, eh? say, i wouldn't have guessed you had all this spunk in you!" he took the time to say, casting her an admiring glance. he made the turn and the "baby" ploughed through the soft rough road at a perilous clip. the road wound through thickly wooded hills, up and down, apparently leading to nowhere. suddenly it twisted up a long hill. tom's car climbed easily, slackening its speed for a few moments at the top. turning, robin could make out the course over which they had come and, to her horror, the little car plunging over it. "look--_look!_" she cried. "well, i'll be--blowed!" tom granger stared as though he could not believe his eyes. "he saw the marks of my new tires, i guess. he's a sharp one. cheer up--we're not caught yet." he increased the speed; they tore down the slope in breakneck haste. but, in the hollow, the car slopped out of the muddy ruts, gave a sickening lurch sidewise and dropped with a jolt into mud to the axles. his face white with excitement tom granger tore at the gears, tried to go back, to go forward, but in vain. and, presently, they both heard the distant throb of a motor. robin jumped down from the car, hugging her box. "i'll run. good-bye, tom, thank you _so_ much!" she was far too excited to realize the familiar way in which she had addressed him. she had cleared the ditch and stood on the fringe of the deep woods. "i'll tell you sometime--about it!" she flung to him. "i'm--not--stealing! that man--will know--" and she disappeared among the leafing undergrowth. "well, i'll--be--oh, i _say_, miss forsyth, don't--" but the boy's attention, quite naturally, turned to meet the enemy, who at that moment appeared over the crest of the hill. chapter xxii the green beads beryl waved robin off to the granger's with a forced cheerfulness. left alone, she sat in the room she shared with robin and stared unhappily at the disarray left from the frenzied packing and unpacking. nothing exciting like going off to a house-party of young people with two bags full of lovely clothes would ever, _ever_ happen to her! in fact _nothing_ exciting would ever happen. she'd just go on and on wanting things all her life. she did not envy robin, for robin was such a dear no one could ever envy her, but she wished she could have just _some_ of the chances robin had--and did not appreciate. she straightened. oh, with just one of robin's dresses, couldn't she sail into that drawing room at wyckham and hold her own with the proudest of them? mrs. granger and the haughty alicia had no terrors for _her_, and if they tried to snub her, she'd put her violin under her chin and then-- the peal of the doorbell reverberated through the quiet house. beryl heard harkness' slow step, as he went to the door; then it climbed the stairs and stopped outside of robin's room. "miss beryl--a telegram." "for me?" beryl drew back. she had never received a telegram in her life and the yellow envelope frightened her. "the boy said as to sign here." beryl wrote her name mechanically in letters that zigzagged crazily. harkness lingered while she tore open the envelope, concern struggling with curiosity on his face. "it's from robin's guardian. he--he wants--oh, harkness, am i reading _right_? he says i must come to new york at _once_--tonight, if i can. he'll meet me--it's _extremely_ important. why, harkness, what in the world has happened? it doesn't sound awful, does it? did you ever know of anything so mysterious in your life?" harkness never had. he read the telegram with brows drawn together. "mebbe they left out something," he suggested, turning the sheet and scrutinizing its back. "well, i'll _have_ to go." beryl's voice betrayed her deep excitement. "i _can_ catch the evening train. oh, harkness, how often i've watched that go out and wished i was on it! and now i'm going to be. i'm going to new york! harkness, be a _dear_ and hurry some dinner, will you? i'll pack. and oh, will you take a note to mother for me? i'll not have time to stop. or wait--i won't tell her i'm going until i know what it's for--she'd worry. isn't that best?" "yes, that's best. i'll get you some nice dinner, don't you fret. and joe'll take you down to the station in the truck, he will, for like as not he'll be meetin' the train anyways for his wife's niece who lives boston way. she's a-goin' to help joe's wife--" "oh, that'll be _nice_. but please hurry, harkness. that boy's waiting for his book. and i can't think." two hours later beryl sat upright on the plush seat of the evening train, her old suitcase at her feet packed with every garment she possessed. "this is more fun than all your old house-parties," she apostrophized the black square of window, which dimly reflected her glowing face. then she lost herself in a delicious "i wonder" as to why she had been summoned so mysteriously to new york. cornelius allendyce and miss effie met her at the end of her wonderful journey, no part of which had wearied her in the least, and their smiling faces put at rest the tiny misgiving that had persisted that she might be walking into some sort of a scheme to separate her from robin. "i am glad you got my telegram in time to catch tonight's train. i've made an important appointment for you tomorrow morning with a friend of mine." but not another word concerning the mystery would the lawyer say. both he and his sister went about with a queer smile, and treated beryl as fond (and rich) parents might a good child on christmas eve. the next morning miss effie started the two of them off for the "appointment" with a fluttery excitement bordering on hysteria. "you'll think, my dear, you've rubbed aladdin's lamp," she whispered to beryl, patting down the neat white collar of beryl's coat. beryl thought of her words when she followed mr. allendyce through a long dim room, crowded with treasures of fabric and ceramic, rich in coloring, fragrant of oriental perfumes. "he's a collector," cornelius allendyce explained, nodding sideways and hurrying on to a room in the back, as though their errand had nothing to do with the curious things about them. "ah, there, eugene, we're here! miss lynch, this is eugene dominez, known to two continents as that rare specimen, an honest collector; to me, the only man i can't beat at chess!" a very small man rose from a great carved chair. he had a thin, leathery face with an exaggerated nose, stretched out as though from sniffing for curios in dusty dim corners. when he smiled his eyes shut and his mouth twisted until he looked like a jolly little gnome. "ah-ha! you admit you cannot beat me!" he spoke with a soft accent. "and this is the little lady who owns the green beads." and he peered closely at beryl. the green beads! she had not thought of them once. "sit down. sit down. i will ask you to tell me a story. then i will tell _you_ a story. first, my dear young lady, tell me where you found the beads?" as he spoke, he drew open a drawer, and took from it the envelope robin had given to her guardian. beryl answered briefly, for the simple reason that she found difficulty managing her tongue. "an--an old priest--back in ireland--gave them--to us. he'd found them in an antique shop in london." "ah, so! just so! so! so!" crowed the gnome-like man, jumping up and down in his great chair. "now i will tell _you_ a story." "once upon a time, as you say, a beautiful queen of the fifteenth century, while travelling through a forest, came upon a roving band of gypsies. so great was her beauty that the gypsy chief gave to her a necklace of precious jade, upon each bead of which had been tooled a crown, so infinitesimal as to be seen only through a strong lens. the chief told the fair queen that the necklace brought good fortune to whosoever possessed it. but so proud was the young queen of the precious beads and the good fortune that was to be hers that she boasted of them to her court and aroused the envy of many until a knave among her courtiers stole them from her. for generations these beads, the workmanship of a magyar artisan, have passed from owner to owner, always mysteriously, for, because of the good fortune they had power to bestow, no one parted with them except from the most dire necessity, and only lost them through theft. ah," he held up one of the glowing green globes, "the stories they could tell of greed and dishonor and cunning! the lies that have been told for them! and an old priest found them at last! it is many years since there has been any trace." he stared at beryl as though to see through her into the past. then he roused quickly and shook his shoulders. "they have hung about the necks of crowned people, good people--and wicked people. perhaps they have brought good fortune--as the magyar chieftain said they would. who knows? you, my dear--you are a girl with a sensible head on a pair of straight shoulders--tell me, do you care more for the superstition of this necklace--than for the money i will pay you for it--say, fifteen thousand dollars?" beryl stood up so suddenly that her chair tumbled backward, making a crashing noise in the subdued stillness of the little room. "are you joking?" she asked in a queer, choky voice. "no, he is not joking. and i told you he is known the world over as an honest collector," broke in cornelius allendyce. "fifteen--thousand--dollars! why, that's an _awfully_ big amount, isn't it?" beryl appealed helplessly to the lawyer. "why--of _course_ i'll sell it--if you're sure it's what you think it is. i--i don't want--" the little collector handed her one of the beads and a strong magnifying glass. "look!" he commanded. beryl obeyed. there, quite plainly, she made out a tiny crown. she laughed hysterically. "i see it! i thought that was a scratch. i never noticed it was on every one. oh, how queer! a queen wore these!" she rolled the bead slowly in the palm of her hand. then she handed it back. "but i'd much rather have the money than the beads even if a dozen queens wore them." her sound practicalness rang harshly in the exotic atmosphere of the room. "i explained to mr. dominez your situation--and your ambition," cornelius allendyce put in almost apologetically. "mr. allendyce will represent you in this deal, miss lynch, if you care to think the sale over. however, i am giving you a final offer. you are young and--" beryl reached out both hands with childish impulsiveness. "oh, i want the money _now!_ i want to spend it. i want--oh, you don't _know_ all i want--" she stopped abruptly, confused by the smiles on both men's faces. "mr. dominez will give you a partial payment in cash and the rest i will deposit in the bank to your credit," explained cornelius allendyce. "you need not feel ashamed of your excitement, my dear; fortune like this does not come often to anyone. it's hard, indeed, not to believe that the little beads _have_ magic." "i'm dreaming. i'm just _plain dreaming_ and i'll wake up in a minute and find i'm beryl lynch, poor as ever!" beryl whispered to herself as she followed robin's guardian out into the sunshine of the street. she felt of her bulging pocketbook, into which she had put the roll of bills the little collector had smilingly given her, and which robin's guardian had counted over, quite seriously. it felt real but it just _couldn't_ be true-- "now where, my dear? you ought to make this day one you'll never forget." "don't i have to go right back to wassumsic? oh, then--then--can i go to see jacques henri and tell him? i know the way--i can take the ninth avenue elevated--or--would it be _very_ foolish if i took a taxi?" beryl colored furiously. "not at all, miss beryl, not at all. take the taxi and keep it there to return to my house; then you and miss effie put your heads together and decide just what you want to do first with your money." beryl rejoiced that it was a nice shiny taxi, quite like a real lady's car. she sniffed delightedly the leathery smell, sat bolt upright with her chin in the air. "go straight down fifth avenue," she instructed the driver. spring, with its eternal sorcery, caressed the great city. its spell threw a sheen over the drab things beryl remembered so well, the brick schoolhouse, the settlement, the dirty narrow street flanked by dull-brown tenements with their endless fire escapes mounting higher and higher, hung now with bedding of every color. the street swarmed with children returning from school, and they gathered about the automobile climbing on to the running board on either side and peering through the windows. "it's the lynch girl," someone cried and another answered jeeringly. "aw, git off! wot she doin' in this swell autymobile?" beryl did not mind in the least the street urchins; even though she had lived among them, neither she nor dale had ever been of them, thanks to her mother's watchful care. she smiled at them and fled into the dark alley way that led to the court which, all through her childhood, had been her playground. as she climbed, a dreadful thought appalled her. what if dear old jacques henri had moved away--or died! but, no, at the very moment she let the fear halt her climbing step she heard the dear sound of his violin. she crept to his door and softly opened it. the old man stood near his window, through which he could see a slit of blue sky between two walls. on the sill were the pink geraniums he nursed through winter and summer, their pinkness brightening the gloom of the bare, dim room. jacques henri called them his family. "jacques henri!" beryl ran to him and threw her strong arms about him. "hold! let me look. my girl? ah, do my old eyes tell me false things? no, it's my little beryl!" beryl took his violin from him, kissed its strings lightly and laid it carefully upon the table. then she pushed the startled old man back into the one comfortable chair and perched herself upon its arm. "listen, dear jacques henri, and i'll tell you the strangest story that you ever heard--about queens and gypsies and green beads and a girl you know. don't say _one_ word until i'm through." and beryl told in all its wonderful detail, the happenings of the morning. "and don't you see what it means? i can begin to study at _once_! right this minute! and, _oh_, how i'll work and practice and learn until--" she caught up the old man's violin and its bow and drew it across the strings. "play!" commanded jacques henri, without so much as a word for the aladdin-lamp tale she had told him. beryl played and as she played she wished with all her might she could summon the power that had been hers on christmas night. she wanted to play for jacques henri as she had played then. but she could not. "stop!" beryl laid the violin down. the old man scowled at her until she shifted nervously under his searching eyes. "your fingers--they are clever, your ear is true--but there is nothing--of _you_--in what you play! do you know what i mean?" he did not wait for beryl to answer; he went on, with a shake of his great head and his eyes still fixed upon her. "you come to me and tell me your good fortune and what you will do; how _you_ can study and _you_ can work and _you_ can learn to make good music--and you have no word for what that money will mean to your saint of a mother--aye, the best woman god ever made! shame to you, selfish girl, that you should put your ambition before her dreams!" the color dyed beryl's face. "i never thought--" she muttered, then stopped abruptly, ashamed of her own admission. "no, you never thought! do you ever think much beyond yourself?" then, afraid that he had spoken too harshly, he laid his hand affectionately upon beryl's shoulder. "but you are young, my dear, and youth is careless. jacques henri knows that there is good in you--my eyes are wise and i can see into your heart. it is an honest little heart--you will heed in time. ambition is a greedy thing--watch out that you keep it in your clever head and do not let it wrap its hard sinews about your heart, crushing all that is beautiful there. listen to me, child; think you that your music can reach into the souls of people if you do not feel that music in your own good soul? your fingers may be clever and your body strong, but your music will be cold, cold, if the heart inside you is a little, cold, mean thing! many's the one, i grant you, content to feed the passing plaudits of the crowd, but not the master--he must go further, he must give of himself to all that they may carry something beautiful of his gift away in their hearts. _that_ is the master. _that_ is music." beryl, always so ready in self-defense, stood mute before the old man's charge. she had been scolded too often by this dear recluse to resent it; she had, too, faith in anything he might say. then: "you just ought to know robin," she burst out, irrelevantly, eager that her old teacher should believe that, even though she might be a selfish, thoughtless girl herself, she could recognize and respect the good qualities in others. "forgive your old friend if he has hurt you. go now to your blessed mother and lay your good fortune at her feet. that i might see her face!" "and if she wants to use--_some_ of the money, will you help me?" asked beryl, in a meek voice. "ah, most surely. and proudly." beryl rode back to miss erne's in a contritely humble mood. "i wish there were some sort of medicine one could take to make them better inside their hearts! i wouldn't care _how_ nasty it tasted," she mourned, impatient at the long, hard climb that must be hers if she ever made of herself what her jacques henri wanted. all of miss effie's coaxing could not keep beryl from taking the afternoon train to wassumsic. "i must tell my mother about the beads--at once!" she answered, firmly. chapter xxiii robin's rescue just as the shrill of the train whistle echoed through the little valley, moira lynch set her lighted lamp in the window. she did not sing tonight as she performed the customary ceremony, nor had she for many nights. her throat seemed too tired, her arms dropped with the weight of her lamp, a dull little pain at the back of her neck gripped her with a pulling clutch. the doctor had told her she was "tired out." she had gone to him very secretly, lest dale or big danny should know and worry. but even to be "just tired out" was very terrifying to mother moira--if her arms and head and heart failed, who would take care of big danny and keep a little home for dale and watch over beryl? with her habitual optimism she tried to laugh away her alarm, but the pulling ache persisted and her arms trembled under tasks that before had seemed as nothing. she told herself that it was all her own fault that her big danny seemed harder to please, but when, under a particularly trying moment, she broke down and cried, she knew she was reaching the end of her endurance. "did the train stop?" queried big danny. "sure and it did!" cried mrs. moira, trying to throw excitement into her voice to please the invalid man. big danny took childish pleasure in listening for the incoming and new york-bound trains. "what's keeping dale? prob'bly hanging 'round the inn!" mrs. moira smothered the quick retort that sprang to her lips in defense of her boy. "he'll be here any minute," she said instead, comfortingly. "there he is now!" her quick ear had caught a step outside. beryl, not dale, opened the door and confronted them. suppressed excitement, impatience, eagerness, an inward disgust of herself for being a "selfish thing anyway" combined to give beryl's face such an unnatural pallor and haggard tensity of expression that big danny whirled his chair toward her and mrs. lynch caught her hands over her heart. "beryl?" she cried, standing quite still. beryl walked to her and very quietly gathered her into her young arms. "don't look so scared, mom, dear. oh, _don't_ cry! why, i'm near crying myself! after i've told you all that has happened i shall just _bawl_. i'm too dreadfully happy. sit down here, mom, and hold my hand tight. wait--i must take my things off first." in a twinkling she had her stage "set" for her surprise. strangely stirred herself, she had to gulp once or twice before she could begin her story. it was difficult to keep it coherent, too, because mrs. moira interrupted her so often with little unnecessary questions. "did you really go to new york?" "and 'twas all night you stayed at the allendyces themselves?" because of her mother's agitation, beryl abandoned the details with which she had planned to lead up to the great surprise. she plunged abruptly to the point of the story. "those beads. they _weren't_ just plain beads. they were a precious necklace made by some queer people, ages and ages ago. _queens_ have worn 'em and all sorts of wicked people and they've gone from hand to hand--i s'pose i ought to say neck to neck--for all these years and then, suddenly, no one could find them. and mr. allendyce's friend--the collector--gave me _this money_ outright for them and--" mrs. lynch suddenly sprang to furious life. she stood erect, her eyes flashing, her fingers working in and out, her lips trembling. "you sold my--_you sold my beads!_ beryl lynch, how _dared_ you. my--my--" beryl stared at her. she could not speak for sheer amazement. "my beads! they--were--the last--thing--i--had that held--me--to--my--dreams." her voice died off in a heart-broken whisper that hurt beryl to the soul. "mother! mother, _please_ don't. it isn't too late. i can get them back. i didn't know you cared, don't you see?" beryl of course did not know about the pulling ache at the back of mother moira's neck or she would have understood that her mother's hysteria was due partly to that. she had never seen her mother look so queer and old and pale and it frightened her. mrs. lynch crossed the room until she stood behind danny's chair. involuntarily her hand moved to his shoulder. "no, you wouldn't know. it isn't your fault. of course it's just beads they were, but they belonged to the young part of me when my heart was that light and full of beautiful dreams and so strong that it hurt the inside of me. and nothing in this world was too fine for the likes of my danny and me. and we thought 'twas just ours for the asking. and then when the clouds come--" her hand pressed big danny's shoulder ever so lightly, "i told myself the dreams were my own and no one could _take them_ away from me and if i couldn't make them come true, as true for himself and me, sure, i'd keep them for my boy and girl. and 'twas the beads were like a dear voice out of the past telling me to be strong, for father murphy, with the saints in heaven now, god rest him, gave them to me himself with his blessing and saying might my dreams come true! ah, well--sure it's a punishment, maybe, for me wanting things just for my own--" "mother!" broke in beryl, sternly. "as if you could be punished for anything! will you tell me one thing? which would you rather have--those beads--or--or--a nice little farm in the hills with a cow and chickens and pigs and a little orchard and--and a ford--and a girl to do the cooking so's you could stay with pop, and dale studying engineering in some college, if he wanted to, and me--" "beryl lynch, are ye crazy?" cried big danny, suspecting that the girl was in someway trying to mock her mother. "_no_, i'm not crazy, though i ought to be, with old jacques henri scolding me and now mother--" she bit her lip childishly. "will you please just answer me, mother?" "a farm--with a garden--and a cow--and trees and a good stretch of the green meadow--ah, sure i'd think it a bit of heaven." "mother, you can have it! you can have it!" beryl rushed to and knelt by big danny's chair. "that's what i was trying to tell you. that man will give you fifteen thousand dollars for those beads! really, truly. see, he gave me all this money today. and mr. allendyce will put the rest in the bank. oh, i know it's hard to believe but it's true. you can ask mr. allendyce." big danny, with trembling hands, took the roll of bills from beryl's purse. they were undisputable proof of her story. "moira girl, 'tis true!" big danny's voice trembled. "'tis father murphy's blessing," whispered mrs. lynch, a strange light in her eyes. "may i be worthy of it!" then she roused and laughed, a tinkling laugh. "ah--my girl shall have her music, now! oh, it's too wonderful." "where's dale?" cried beryl, her heart jubilant that the unexpected crisis had passed. "won't he be surprised?" "what ever can be keeping the boy? 'tis long past the hour." "now, mother, don't you begin a-worrying. dale's old enough to look after himself." "it's a fussing old hen i am, as true as true!" and because once more her heart was so light inside of her that it hurt, she kissed her big danny on the top of his head. "i wish dale would come. i ought to go back to the manor. harkness is probably worrying his head off over my strange visit to new york." but harkness had other things to worry about. dale burst in upon his family just a few moments after beryl had spoken but she did not tell her story. he gave her no opportunity. "gordon forsyth's lost!" "_lost?_" "yes. somewhere in the woods between cornwall and south falls. strangest thing you ever heard. she made young tom granger run off with her--goodness knows where they were headed for, and when his car went into the ditch she made a dash for the woods and that's the last anyone's seen of her." "why, dale, she couldn't--" cried beryl. "couldn't? easiest thing in the world. woods are thick and miles deep through there." "i mean she couldn't be running off with tom granger. why, she never met him until yesterday--" "well, it wasn't exactly _with_ him but she made him, _take_ her off. she was running away from some one. granger's been over here talking to norris. they called me in. seems kraus had taken my model to sell to granger, and called it his own, and miss gordon heard him. and she just walked in when they weren't in the room and--took it. granger wouldn't say any more. he's too worried. what i think is that kraus chased them--miss gordon and tom granger--" "how _thrilling! what_ an adventure," exclaimed beryl, her eyes shining. oh, exciting things _were_ happening! "thrilling! won't be thrilling if anything's happened to the kid. it's four hours now and granger's had a bunch of men hunting ever since his son walked into the office and gave the alarm. can you give me a bite in a hurry, mom? the manor car's going to take six of us over to meet young granger and make a thorough search." "but it's tired to death you look now, dale. can't--" "i'm not tired--just bothered. mom, i hate to think of that little thing getting into this fix just for my model. granger was awfully decent about the thing; told norris he was a fool not to jump at it. he said he had some sort of a note miss robin had left and it seemed to amuse him, but he didn't offer to show it. it isn't only because she's a forsyth i care, but she's such a square little thing. hurry up, please, mom, williams may stop any moment." "_i_ ought to go up to the manor. they must be in an awful state." "wait, as soon as ever i can fix your father i'll go with you myself," cried mrs. lynch. * * * * * toward noon of the next day, in answer to an urgent telegram, cornelius allendyce arrived at the manor, having come down from new york by motor. just as he was gulping down the coffee harkness had brought to him, mr. granger, senior, was ushered in. the men knew one another well. they shook hands, then cornelius allendyce motioned him to a chair opposite him at the table. the lawyer only needed to look at the other man's face to know that he brought no good news. "tom telephoned from cornwall at six o'clock. not a sign. not so much as a red hair! strangest thing i ever heard of. they're going to search the ravines today--easy enough for her to stumble into them if she was frightened or hurrying. then there's the kidnapping possibility!" "improbable!" protested the lawyer. "well, _nothing's_ improbable. you'd have said it wasn't to be thought of that a youngster like that would run off with that model. i want to give you the details of this whole matter--they'd be extremely interesting if one were not so concerned." he told of his two interviews with adam kraus and of dale's invention. "a master contrivance. i can't understand your man, here, letting it get away from him. why, it's worth a lot to me, but in these mills--well, you may not know what i think of your mills," he laughed. "i'll tell you another time. the girl saw this kraus go into my office, and persuaded my boy, who'd been taking her for a ride, to stop. she was waiting in my outer office and heard kraus claim the invention as his own--scoundrel that he was--and when i took kraus to see my head foreman, didn't she walk in, help herself to the model and leave me this." he drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to cornelius allendyce. "read it." "this model is dale lynch's. i am taking it to him. when i see my guardian, i shall make him buy it for the forsyth mills. gordon forsyth." cornelius allendyce looked up from the bit of paper. he had suddenly recalled the frightened little girl he had first brought to gray manor. "who'd believe that the child had the nerve?" "that's what i said. well, she ran off with it, kraus gave chase, tom headed toward cornwall, then switched off on an unimproved road and came to grief. just as kraus was about to overtake them the child ran off into the wood. tom didn't have the vaguest idea what it was all about, but he tried to head off kraus and when kraus started for the wood he did a little wrestling trick that surprised the fellow, got him down, tied him in the ford and went himself in search of miss gordon. when he came back after an hour's search he found kraus and the ford gone and he walked back to south falls. that's all." "that model may be worth a lot, but it is not worth another tragedy to this house," groaned cornelius allendyce. "no. it is worth a good deal--but not--that much." a few moments' deep silence prevailed. wrinkles of worry twisted the lawyer's face. what a mess it all was, anyway--he had urged robin to go to the granger's in hopes that she'd bring the two families into close intimacy again and instead of that she had gotten herself into this fix. if they found her safe and sound she ought to be spanked and taught to keep her hands off the mill affairs until she was older. but down in his heart he knew this was only a vexatious expression of his concern--you couldn't punish robin for anything. "as her guardian i appreciate your alarm. i share it with you, not alone because miss forsyth was a guest at my house but because i took a great fancy to the child. it struck me, as i looked at her, that her coming to wassumsic--to the manor, might change things, here, quite a bit." "it has--it will," mumbled mr. allendyce. for a moment, just to relieve his feelings, he wondered if he might not confide in this very human man the ordeal he must face with madame forsyth when his reckoning came. "my wife is prostrated with it all. she does not know the particulars but she is deeply concerned. i do not like to add to your worry but do you think there is any possibility that the child returned to the road, and that kraus, freed from tom's rope, captured her and went off with her?" "why, every possibility in the world!" shouted robin's guardian. "why did you hug that idea to yourself? we'll telephone the new york police. he's sure to make straight for the city." both men welcomed action. they rushed to the library and put in a long distance call and then, while waiting, paced the room's length back and forth. harkness, shaking and white and miserable, glued his ear to the crack in the door, hopeful for one crumb of comforting news. below stairs mrs. budge, flatly refusing to believe that "miss robin" could be lost just when she had learned to love her, beat up a cake for her homecoming, unmindful of the tears that splashed into the batter. in the little sitting-room they had shared, beryl, who did not even have the heart to play with susy, sat with her nose against the window watching the ribbon of road over which anyone would come if they came. that was why she was the first of the manor household to spy the dilapidated ford approaching, snorting up the incline. something about it made her think of the general dilapidation of the forgotten village. it might be some word! she rushed down the stairs, two steps at a time, past the startled harkness, through the big front door. the strange-looking car had turned into the manor gate. a man with long white whiskers was driving it. and yes, a bareheaded girl, who looked like robin, sat on the back seat. it _was_ robin. beryl waved her hand wildly and robin answered. but who rode with her? beryl's flying feet came to a quick halt. "as sure as i'm _alive_ it's the queen of altruria!" turning, beryl rushed back to the manor. "harkness! _harkness!_" she cried, bursting in through the door. "robin's coming! she's _here!_ and she's brought the queen of altruria with her! oh, _what'll_ we do?" for surely some ceremony befitting royalty should be prepared. "the queen of _what_--" cried mr. granger and cornelius allendyce rushing from the library. "oh, the girl's _crazy_--" asserted the lawyer. nevertheless he ran to the door, followed by mr. granger and harkness and beryl and hannah budge and chloe, who had heard beryl's glad cry in the kitchen. at close range the dilapidated ford looked even more dilapidated; robin, letting her royal companion talk terms of payment with the bewhiskered scion of the forgotten village, clambered out the moment the car stopped and fell into beryl's arms. from their shelter, after the briefest instant, she lifted her face to greet her guardian and found him staring at the queen in a sort of stupid unbelief. "i brought--" robin started an introduction, but did not finish. for, recovering, with an obvious effort, his natural manner of politeness, her guardian was hurrying down the steps to the little car. "madame forsyth, i did not expect--" chapter xxiv madame forsyth comes home "no. i judge from all your faces no one expected me!" exclaimed madame forsyth coldly, extending to cornelius allendyce the tips of her fingers. "harkness, you look as though you were seeing a ghost!" her rebuking words had the effect of galvanizing poor harkness' limbs to action--but not his tongue. though he hobbled down the steps and took the bag from the lawyer's hand, not a word could he speak from sheer stupefaction. and hannah budge so forgot her long years of loyalty to the house of forsyth as to cry out--"oh, miss robin!" before so much as one word of greeting for madame forsyth. "you could 'a clean knocked me over," she explained to harkness afterward, "our madame going away as fine as you please with that baggage of a florrie who was as full of tricks as a cat after a mouse, and coming back in that old car that had moss on it, i do believe, and with miss robin, too, who they all thought was lost though _i_ knew better. something _told_ me to beat up that cake yesterday!" "and miss robin didn't know madame was madame," explained harkness, his face perplexed. "she and miss beryl here've been thinking she was some mysterious lydy or other--williams says they got it in their little heads she was a queen hiding--" "madame hiding _where_?" snorted budge. "well, _i_ can't make nothing out of it. my head goes 'round in a circle like. only williams says that lydy must be the lydy the young lydies visited, mysterious like, just afore christmas and the lydy's our madame all right and that's what i say my head goes 'round in a circle!" "your tongue, too, timothy harkness. well, there's lots going to happen now, or my name ain't hannah budge. first thing, i s'pose, she'll clear that castle young 'un out of the house and then your miss beryl. and mebbe send miss robin off to school somewheres to get these common notions out o' her little head. you say they're all talking upstairs now?" "only madame and the lawyer man. mr. granger's gone down to the mills to send word to his home that miss robin's found." "saints be praised!" murmured mrs. budge, devoutly. up in her little sitting-room robin and beryl sat arm in arm, and robin told beryl the whole story of her adventure. on the window seat beside them lay the square box containing dale's model. "i just ran, beryl, as fast as i could and _anywhere_. i was so frightened i didn't stop to look. i fell down twice and the second time i was so tired i could scarcely get up. but i had to. and then i thought i'd found a path, and i followed it, but it stopped at a ravine that was, _oh_, so deep. well, i knew i was lost. i called and called and no one answered. and i heard all sorts of queer noises as though there might be wild beasts. one came very close, i'm sure, though i couldn't see it. and i was dreadfully hungry. i sat down on a log and cried, too--my feet ached so and my arms ached so from carrying this box. i decided to bury it and leave a note telling about it, for, honestly, beryl, i didn't think then i'd live an hour longer, but i didn't have a pencil and when i started to dig with my hands the ground was so gooy that i couldn't bear to. oh, i'll never forget it." she shuddered and beryl held her hands tighter. "and it began to get dark. i tried to be brave and say nothing could hurt me, but i couldn't help but hear the funny noises and i was so _awfully_ alone. i started to walk again, just somewhere, because when i walked i couldn't hear all the sounds and every now and then i'd call out. and just as it was almost pitch dark in the wood something big came rushing toward me and sprang at me and, beryl, i fainted dead away! well, the next thing i knew something was licking my face. and someone was saying something queer, and beryl, it was cæsar and that brina from our house of rushing water! cæsar had heard me call and found me, and then he had barked and howled until brina came with a lantern." beryl jumped up and down in excitement. "what happened then?" she cried. "brina carried me--and that box--to the house in the wood. it seemed i'd gotten most to it and didn't know it. and the queen was awfully frightened. but she wouldn't let me say a word; she made brina put me in her bed and she covered me with blankets and she fed me herself, something hot and oh, so good. and she kept petting me and cuddling me for i guess i shook like a leaf. you see, i couldn't _believe_ i was safe and sound; i kept seeing that dog jump at me! and finally she sang to me, the nicest old-fashioned song and i went to sleep, and i never opened my eyes until this morning, and there she stood by my bed with a tray of nice breakfast. she wouldn't let me tell her how i got lost until i'd eaten every crumb. and then i felt so cosy and warm and safe that i told her everything--_everything_, all about mother lynch and how my plans for the house of laughter had failed at first, and then the rileys and what i thought of the mills, and how horrid mr. norris was and about susy and poor granny and dale's model, and then what i'd done at grangers'. i just got started and i couldn't stop. and beryl, i told her _again_ how my aunt was an unhappy old woman who worried over her own troubles so much that she didn't have time for other people's. wasn't that dreadful?" and robin caught up a pillow and buried her face in it. beryl looked troubled. "yes, that _was_ dreadful. what ever did she say?" "she didn't say anything. she picked up my tray and went out, and i felt the way i had that other time, all fussed, because i'd bothered a queen with my silly affairs. and i could have sworn then she was a queen, beryl, she had such a dignified way of being sweet and she smelled so nice and perfumy--a different perfume. and that brina had put the gorgeousest nightgown on me, too." "when did you first know the queen was your aunt?" beryl broke in. "beryl lynch, on my honor, not until my guardian called her madame forsyth! after she took my tray out she came back, and she did look sort of funny, now i remember, the way one does when one decides suddenly to do something you hadn't dreamed of doing, and she told me brina had gone into the village to hunt up some sort of a vehicle to get me back to the manor. and i didn't think until the last moment that she meant to come, too. and all the way over i was nearly bursting thinking how surprised you'd be and what fun it would be to have the queen visit us. oh, dear!" and robin drew a long breath, half sigh. "well, something'll happen _now_," groaned beryl, in much the same tone budge had used. "when she finds out about susy and me!" and below in the library the same thought held robin's guardian--something must happen, now. he had gone there to wait while madame forsyth freshened herself after her long ride. and while he waited, in considerable apprehension, he planned the course he would follow; if madame refused to accept little red-robin as her heir, because she was a girl and _different_, why, he'd take her back with him to his own home. she could live with him and his sister until jimmie came back and he'd even adopt her if jimmie would let him. and he'd take beryl, too, if robin wished--and he'd see susy was put with some nice family. but where in the world had robin found her aunt--or her aunt found robin. everyone acted as though they were knocked stupid by the mystery--no one had offered a word of explanation. he rubbed his forehead as though it might have circles, too. "which shall we hear first?" a voice asked behind him, "how _you_ happened to bring little robin here--or how _i_ did?" the words startled him more because of their tone than their unexpectedness. and turning, he saw (to his immense relief) that madame forsyth was smiling--and in her eyes was a softened look, though they were shadowed with fatigue. "i am immensely curious, i must admit, as to where you found robin, but i feel that i owe you the first explanation." he told then, of his first visit to patchin place and of his finding little robin in her curious surroundings. "i really cannot say just what put the notion in my head of taking her to the manor--i think it was something appealing about the child." "you are more honest to admit that than i expected, cornelius allendyce. your silence in regard to her being a girl might seem inexcusable to me only that i am glad, now, that you kept silence. for i would have most certainly, then, sent her back. and--i am glad that never happened. you see _i_ can be honest, too." "before i can explain my finding the child in this last plight of hers i must tell you a little of my 'wanderings' since i left the manor. they were not far. i went to new york and reserved passage on a steamer sailing for the mediterranean the next week. that evening i saw the 'for sale' notice of a house in the connecticut woods, which advertised absolute seclusion. i telephoned to my banker, who has been in my confidence, and he made a hurried trip to brown's mill and bought the house, just as it stood. the next day i discharged florrie, cancelled my sailing reservations, picked up a strong german woman for a cook, bought a dog and rode out to my new home. it offered all that i had hoped it would. there i planned to find a change that would be a rest, to forget the world about me and live in my past, which was all i had. and for several weeks i did--until two girls broke in upon my precious privacy." she told of robin and beryl's first visit and then of their second, and of the gifts they brought from the manor. "i confess it was a shock to me to discover that this child was--gordon forsyth. yet it was the shock i needed to rouse me from my depression. for, like you, i fell quickly under the girl's charm. from that day on i found i could not hold my thoughts to my past--in spite of me they persisted in dwelling upon the present--and the future. you see i am frank with you." cornelius allendyce nodded. he dared not speak for he did not want to betray the relief he felt. "i do not think i would have returned to the manor for several weeks yet, for my health has singularly benefited by my--unusual change, except that this escapade of robin's made me feel that i was needed here. something she said made up my mind for me, rather quickly. cornelius allendyce--that child has a great gift. it is the gift of giving. an unusual talent in the forsyth family, you are thinking! but like all talents it ought to be trained and directed and strengthened and my work is--to do it. i had thought my life lived--but it is not, and i am happy to have found it so. i am too old, perhaps, to learn the new ways but i am not too old to safeguard them." "you are a wonderful old woman," the lawyer answered, quite involuntarily and with such instant alarm at his audacity that madame forsyth smiled. "oh, no. i am not wonderful at all. i am revealing my heart to you, now, in a way i do not often open it, but i shall, to my last day, probably, be a proud, overbearing old woman with a sharp tongue. you, however, will know what is underneath." there was a moment's silence, then madame forsyth told him of cæsar's finding robin in the woods and giving the alarm. "the child was utterly exhausted. i cannot bear to think of what might have happened if we--had not been living there. thank god we found her. may i summon the girls? i am curious to see more of this rather unusual young person my niece has attached to my household." then the lawyer remembered beryl's great good fortune and that nothing had been said concerning that. how happy robin would be! in answer to madame's summons robin and beryl came to the library, nervously sedate in manner and with fingers intertwined in a close grip. madame beckoned to them with her jeweled white hand. "come to me, robin. are you sorry to find that your mysterious friend by the rushing waters--is your aunt?" robin advanced slowly, her eyes on her aunt's face. "no, oh, no! only--maybe _you're_ sorry about--_me_--being a girl and such a small one--and lame, too--" "oh, my _dear_!" and madame forsyth held out her arms impulsively and robin, her face aglow, snuggled into them. every moment of that day something exciting and significant seemed to happen. ever so many people called, and it was fun to see their surprise at finding madame home. aunt mathilde, (robin could not make the name sound natural) upon introduction, had acted as though she almost liked susy, and susy had looked very cunning in the new dress the nurse had made for her. and she hadn't said susy would have to go! then robin flew off, the very first moment, with beryl to find mrs. lynch and _hug_ her over the wonderful fortune and talk about the farm which must be very near wassumsic. then beryl played for aunt mathilde and aunt mathilde had looked as though she "felt funny inside!" and then dale had come with tom granger, both of them looking haggard from anxiety and lack of sleep. they came in while beryl was playing. robin was glad of that for it gave her a moment to think what she must say to tom granger in explanation. she did not need to say anything, however. tom knew the whole story, from his father and from dale. he and dale had become fast friends. he caught robin's hand and pumped her small arm until it ached. "i had to see you to believe you'd turned up," he laughed. "you certainly gave us a scare we won't forget in a hurry! but you're a good little sport and i'm coming around, if i may, to take you for a ride--before i have to go back to school." "well, i never want to go _fast_ again in my life," cried robin, coloring under the meaning glance beryl shot at her. dale greeted her more shyly, and because madame forsyth and cornelius allendyce were talking to tom, and beryl had eyes and ears only for the nice-looking lad, no one overheard what passed between them. "miss robin, i would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you! you should not have taken such a risk--just for my model." robin looked at dale with shining eyes. would she tell him of her "pretend?" "_you_ saved _my_ life once," she exclaimed, impulsively. "_i_ did!" "yes--a long time ago. i was hunting in a little park in new york for my doll that i'd left there and you found me, crying. and you took me home--to patchin place. i guess maybe you forgot, because you were big and i was a little bit of a thing!" dale stared at her for a moment, then he laughed. "why, of _course_--i remember now. you _were_ a little bit of a thing, with blue eyes and a blue tam. you asked me what a ma was! yes, i'd clean forgotten." he sobered suddenly, and robin knew it was because he remembered _why_ he had forgotten. his father had been hurt that evening. he looked very big now and very much grown up and robin wondered, with a wild confusion sending her blood tingling to her face, would he remember that she had kissed him and called him her prince? she watched him, trembling. but no, he did not remember! "well, you've more than repaid me for _that_ little thing," he said. "someone else would have found you if i hadn't. and please promise, miss robin, you won't take any more chances for me!" so robin locked her precious "pretend" away in her heart--not to be forgotten, but to be enjoyed, as a big-little girl enjoys taking out childish toys or dolls or fancies, dusting them carefully, caressing them tenderly, putting them back reverently--and feeling tremendously grown-up! * * * * * a silvery, shimmery young moon shone down upon two heads close together at a wide-open window. the one was dark and the other red. and the same young moon audaciously winked at the whispered confidences exchanged in the brooding quiet of the night. "oh, robin, doesn't it seem an _age_ since you went off to granger's?----so much has happened. i don't feel like the same girl----tom granger's awfully nice looking----his eyes are _blue_, robin----oh, i won't let myself _think_ of going to new york until mom and pop are settled somewhere away from the mills----robin, you're so _quiet_----i should think you'd be bursting--" "i'm glad my aunt was nice to susy and your mother and--dale. beryl, she's going to make norris take that invention----" "well, i never dreamed that old toy really amounted to anything--" "---- ---- ---- ----" "beryl, don't you love the stars? _you're_ quiet now----" beryl giggled. "robin--i just remembered! do you realize we gave our--queen--_her own book for christmas_?" "beryl, as _sure_ as anything! oh, how funny!" epilogue a story after the story in a hammock hung between two leafing apple trees, a woman lay, so very still that she seemed sleeping. a fitful breeze stirred the pale foliage over her head, now and then showering her with pink petals from the lingering blossoms; from beneath her rose the damp sweet fragrance of soft earth and green grass, nearby a meadow-lark sang plaintively; somewhere a robin called arrogantly to his mate in the nest; from the valley, stretching below the sloping orchard, a violet mist lifted. a tender smile played over the lips of the reclining woman and her eyes stared through the lacy canopy of green into the blue sky, where fleecy clouds sailed off to the west and south. a lingering echo went singing through her heart. "it is all yours, moira lynch! it is all yours!" the beauty around her--the promise of spring, the green of orchard and meadow and distant hill, the rest, the contentment--the happiness, and oh, most precious, the fulfilment. there was never a day now, in mother moira's life, so busy that she could not snatch a moment to go over, in reverent appreciation, the blessings that were hers. and no longer were her dreams--for nothing could change the dreaming heart of the little woman--for herself or even for her big danny; they were for her fine lad, a man now, and beryl, working so earnestly for her ambition, and little robin, who would always _be_ little robin, and the imp of a susy, ruddy cheeked and happy-hearted. how long, long ago seemed those days when, a slip of a girl, she had dreamed on that other hillside of a future that would be hers; how dazzling had been the pictures she had fancied; how much she had dared to ask. in her youthful bravado she had laughed at destiny and had made so bold as to declare destiny might even then be weaving a bit of gold into the drab fabric of her life. (faith, was not little robin her bit of gold? had not the wonderful change begun in their lives after little robin came to the manor?) five years had passed, since she and her big danny had moved from the village to the little farm that was "just around the corner." during them she and big danny had been alone a great deal of the time, excepting for little susy; for dale and beryl, after settling them snugly in the old-fashioned farmhouse, (painted as white as white with a new barn for the gentle-eyed cow, and a pen for the pigs, and a trim little run-way for the chickens) had gone away, dale to an engineering college, beryl to live with miss allendyce and take her precious violin lessons, and lessons in languages and science. but mother moira was never lonesome, for mere miles could not separate a heart like hers from those she loved! there had been significant changes in the village for her to watch develop. the old mill cottages had been torn down and across the river had been built a cluster of white houses, each with its own yard "going right around it," and trees and a bit of garden. there was a new school house, too, and a new corps of teachers, and a hospital and a library. robin and her aunt had opened this only a month before. and the house of laughter had been enlarged to meet the increasing demands upon it; there were rooms for the girls' clubs and the boys' clubs, and a billiard room and a bowling alley, and an athletic field with a basketball court and a baseball diamond. (sir galahad in his scarlet coat still hung over the mantel which williams had built. robin would not let anyone change that.) mrs. riley lived in the upper floor of the house of laughter and took care of it. the manor car, with madame forsyth, passed often now through the streets of the village and from it madame nodded pleasantly to this person and that, stopping sometimes to ask one mill mother concerning her sick child, another of her husband--and another whether she had finished the knit bed-spread upon which madame had found her working one afternoon when she had called. madame had herself regularly visited the new mill houses during the process of construction and took delight in dropping in upon the newly organized school while classes were in session. "i'll be the same proud, overbearing old lady," she had told her lawyer, but she had been mistaken--she could never be quite that again, for she had found too much pure delight in doing the little things robin quite artlessly suggested--little things which had not been easy at first and which had seemed to demand too great a sacrifice of her pride. the passing of time for the three at the manor, madame, mrs. budge and harkness, was marked, mother lynch well knew, by robin's coming and going. for, when her jimmie had returned from southern seas, robin had insisted upon going straight to him, and it was not until her aunt had laid aside the last shred of her old prejudice and invited robin's father to the manor for a long visit that robin had consented to look upon the manor as her "home," though, even then, she steadfastly asserted "part" of her time must be spent with jimmie. while at the manor james forsyth had painted his "wood sprite," which won for him quick and wide recognition, and ever afterward robin and madame forsyth referred to it as "our picture." no, mother moira was never lonesome. a gay voice roused her now from her happy reverie, footsteps rustled the grass, cool hands, with a touch as light as the blowing petals, closed over her eyes. "dreaming again, little mom? you're incurable!" and beryl, with a laugh, dropped upon the ground close to the hammock, one hand closing over her mother's. "it's a bit of a cat-nap i'm stealing," fibbed mother moira, blushing like a girl. her eyes lingered adoringly on the glowing, flushed face close to hers. "where have you been, beryl?" "susy coaxed me off to her fairy spring. it's really a lovely little nook she's found and she's made a doll's house in the hollow of an old tree. she's a funny little thing--almost elfin, isn't she? are you sure she isn't too much trouble for you and dad, mother?" "trouble? bless the little heart of the colleen, it's something happening every minute for it's an imp of mischief she is, but, beryl, i like it. it keeps my own heart young." "as though your heart would ever grow old! you're like robin. oh, mother, you can't _know_ how lonesome i've been over there in milan for the sight of you and this little place. i think my soul, the one poor dear jacques henri tried to find in me and didn't--wakened one night when i actually cried myself to sleep just longing to feel your arms around me! oh, when one has a mother and a home like mine to want to come to, it ought to be _easy_ to keep beautiful inside, the way the dear man said!" and beryl, staring thoughtfully out over the valley, did not see the glow that transformed her mother's face. a shrill whistle from the mills echoed and reechoed through the valley. beryl turned her head suddenly and laid her cheek against the palm of her mother's hand. "mother, i saw a lot of tom granger when i was in paris." mother moira started ever so slightly, with the barest twitching of the hand beryl's cheek touched. "he was very nice to me. mother, are he and--and robin--awfully good friends?" "what's in your heart, my girl?" "mom, couldn't robin marry almost _anybody_? she's such a dear and she's so rich and she's travelled around so much." "why, bless the heart of her, she's nothing but a child!" "mother!" beryl's voice rang impatiently. "we'll just _never_ grow up in your eyes! why, robin's twenty. well, i should think _anyone'd_ like tom granger." "oh, my dear!" and mother moira, reading the girl's heart with her wise mother-eyes, gave a tiny sigh. must the shadow of a heartache touch the splendid friendship between these two, beryl and robin? the thought lingered with her while she watched the girls come hand in hand out to the orchard from the drive where robin had left her roadster. beryl had only been home for three days and robin came out to the farm at every opportunity. her girls--her tall, handsome beryl with the strong shoulders and the free swing of her, and little robin, with her deep blue eyes and her tender lips and her alive hair, and the little limp that gave her walk the appearance of eagerness. there was still so much to talk about that the two girls lingered under the trees while mother moira swung gently and listened and watched the dear young faces. beryl had been the guest for a weekend at a duke's house; robin had spent a month in the canadian rockies with her jimmie; dale had brought home all sorts of tales of adventures from an expedition he had made with an engineering gang into the fastnesses of south america, and beryl had been asked to tour in the fall with the cincinnati symphony and was going to accept. their chatter came back then to wassumsic and the new hospital and the library and the new teachers, who were smith college graduates, and sophie mack who had started a girl scout troop, and the new athletic field at the house of laughter. "bless me, it's forgetting the supper i am, and dale coming!" cried mother moira, springing to quick life. "and dale has a wonderful secret to tell, too," laughed robin, her eyes shining. beryl looked at her friend curiously--robin had the "all-tight-inside" look that beryl remembered from the old days at the manor. "do you know the secret?" she asked. robin's face flushed rose-red. "y-yes. but i promised dale i wouldn't tell. we both want to see your mother's face--when she hears it." "well, i think you're mean to have a secret with dale that _i_ don't know!" cried beryl, with real indignation. "is it something that's going to make mom lots happier?" "i--hope--so!" and to hide the tell-tale rose on her face robin threw her arms around mother moira and kissed her. "faith, is it any happier i could be without my heart just breaking?" dale came and they all, big danny in his wheel chair, ate supper on the broad porch where they could enjoy the sunset. beryl watched her brother with admiring eyes--he had grown so strong and big and good-looking, his nice-fitting clothes set off his broad shoulders so well, his voice had such a ring of confidence. "i've been offered the management of the forsyth mills," he announced suddenly. then _that_ was the secret! "really, truly?" exclaimed beryl. "and will ye take it, my boy?" asked big danny, a note of pride deepening his voice. "my boy a manager!" trilled mother moira. "yes. i'll take it. i made one condition with madame forsyth--and she granted it." and dale flashed a look across to robin. everyone followed his glance and everyone read the truth in robin's face. "robin forsyth--and you never breathed a _word_!" cried beryl, not knowing for the moment whether to give way to great joy or indignation that her friend had not confided in her. with a quick little motion, robin had slipped to mother lynch's chair and, kneeling beside it, she buried her face against the woman's heart. "i didn't know--myself," came in muffled tones from the embrace. "are you happy, mother?" asked dale, boyishly. "ah, i did not know i could be happier--but, i am!" and mother moira smiled through the tears that brimmed in her eyes. beryl, staring at her mother and brother and her friend, suddenly gave voice to a thought that had come with such significance as to sweep away her girlish reserve. "then it _isn't_ tom granger at all! you don't care a _bit_ about him?" robin's face lifted. "about tom? oh, goodness me, no. why, he isn't worth dale's little _finger_--beryl lynch, why do you ask me that?" "oh--nothing. really, truly--" and beryl escaped into the house. * * * * * robin drove dale back to the village. at the turn of the road near the house of laughter she stopped the car that they might enjoy for a moment the twilight glow of the valley. lights twinkled from the mill houses across the river. from the house of laughter came the sound of singing. a young crescent of a moon shone silvery against a purple blue sky. "little red-robin," cried dale, suddenly, "are you very sure?" "sure--of what?" robin asked in a voice that trembled in spite of her. "someday you will be a rich girl. i am a--working-man. what will the world say? they may laugh at you!" robin's chin lifted. had she ever reckoned her gifts in dollars and cents? "but you're my prince!" she protested, proudly. "don't you remember? that night, a long, long time ago, when you took me home, i called you--my prince. you said, then, you couldn't stay with me--that i'd have to find you. well," her voice dropped to a whisper, "i have." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "the books you like to read at the price you like to pay" there are two sides to everything-- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocketbook. _don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._ _there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste_ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- jane abbott's stories for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. mrs. abbott holds a unique place among the writers of fiction for young girls. her charming stories possess those same qualities of optimism and high ideals for humanity that made the books of louisa may alcott so popular. she never fails to create an atmosphere of happiness and the spirit of youth and spring. red robin in robin forsyth mrs. abbott has added a new and charming member to the happy collection of young girls who have enlivened the pages of her stories. aprilly a charming story of a young girl and of the adventures which lead her to her goal of happiness. the book is filled with that joyous spirit of youth and spring that the title suggests. highacres a school story for girls full of vitality and enthusiasm. there is a real plot and the girls introduced are sure to be interesting to the reader. keineth keineth is a life creation--within its covers the actual spirit of youth. the book is of special interest to girls, but when a grown-up gets hold of it there follows a one-session under the reading lamp with "finis" at the end. larkspur especially interesting to any girl scout because it is the story of a girl scout who is poor and has to help her mother. happy house the delightful story of two american girls, ann and nancy. they heal the old family quarrel and the old homestead becomes a happy house. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the novels of temple bailey may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the blue window the heroine, hildegarde, finds herself transplanted from the middle western farm to the gay social whirl of the east. she is almost swept off her feet, but in the end she proves true blue. peacock feathers the eternal conflict between wealth and love. jerry, the idealist who is poor, loves mimi, a beautiful, spoiled society girl. the dim lantern the romance of little jane barnes who is loved by two men. the gay cockade unusual short stories where miss bailey shows her keen knowledge of character and environment, and how romance comes to different people. the trumpeter swan randy paine comes back from france to the monotony of every-day affairs. but the girl he loves shows him the beauty in the common place. the tin soldier a man who wishes to serve his country, but is bound by a tie he cannot in honor break--that's derry. a girl who loves him, shares his humiliation and helps him to win--that's jean. their love is the story. mistress anne a girl in maryland teaches school, and believes that work is worthy service. two men come to the little community; one is weak, the other strong, and both need anne. contrary mary an old-fashioned love story that is nevertheless modern. glory of youth a novel that deals with a question, old and yet ever new--how far should an engagement of marriage bind two persons who discover they no longer love. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- margaret pedler's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. to-morrow's tangle the game of love is fraught with danger. to win in the finest sense, it must be played fairly. red ashes a gripping story of a doctor who failed in a crucial operation--and had only himself to blame. could the woman he loved forgive him? the barbarian lover a love story based on the creed that the only important things between birth and death are the courage to face life and the love to sweeten it. the moon out of reach nan davenant's problem is one that many a girl has faced--her own happiness or her father's bond. the house of dreams-come-true how a man and a woman fulfilled a gypsy's strange prophecy. the hermit of far end how love made its way into a walled-in house and a walled-in heart. the lamp of fate the story of a woman who tried to take all and give nothing. the splendid folly do you believe that husbands and wives should have no secrets from each other? the vision of desire an absorbing romance written with all that sense of feminine tenderness that has given the novels of margaret pedler their universal appeal. waves of destiny each of these stories has the sharp impact of an emotional crisis--the compressed quality of one of margaret pedler's widely popular novels. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- the novels of grace livingston hill may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. a new name ariel custer best man, the city of fire, the cloudy jewel dawn of the morning enchanted barn, the exit betty finding of jasper holt, the girl from montana, the lo, michael! man of the desert, the marcia schuyler miranda mystery of mary, the not under the 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----------------------------------------------------------------------- stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the keeper of the bees a gripping human novel everyone in your family will want to read. the white flag how a young girl, singlehanded, fought against the power of the morelands who held the town of ashwater in their grip. her father's daughter the story of such a healthy, level-headed, balanced young woman that it's a delightful experience to know her. a daughter of the land in which kate bates fights for her freedom against long odds, renouncing the easy path of luxury. freckles a story of love in the limberlost that leaves a warm feeling about the heart. a girl of the limberlost the sheer beauty of a girl's soul and the rich beauties of the out-of-doors are in the pages of this book. the harvester the romance of a strong man and of nature's fields and woods. laddie full of the charm of this author's "wild woods magic." at the foot of the rainbow a story of friendship and love out-of-doors. michael o'halloran a wholesome, humorous, tender love story. the song of the cardinal the love idyl of the cardinal and his mate, told with rare delicacy and humor. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- james oliver curwood's stories of adventure may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list the ancient highway a gentleman of courage the alaskan the country beyond the flaming forest the valley of silent men the river's end the golden snare nomads of the north kazan baree, son of kazan the courage of captain plum the danger trail the hunted woman the flower of the north the grizzly king isobel the wolf hunters the gold hunters the courage of marge o'doone back to god's country grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york ----------------------------------------------------------------------- transcriber's notes . punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. . the unusual long dash construction "---- ---- ---- ----" just before the epilogue was retained as in the original. sue a little heroine by l. t. meade author of "a girl from america," "the princess of the revels," "polly, a new-fashioned girl," "a sweet girl graduate," etc. new york the new york book company biography and bibliography l. t. meade (mrs. elizabeth thomasina smith), english novelist, was born at bandon, county cork, ireland, , the daughter of rev. r. t. meade, rector of novohal, county cork, and married toulmin smith in . she wrote her first book, _lettie's last home_, at the age of seventeen and since then has been an unusually prolific writer, her stories attaining wide popularity on both sides of the atlantic. she worked in the british museum, living in bishopsgate without, making special studies of east london life which she incorporated in her stories. she edited _atlanta_ for six years. her pictures of girls, especially in the influence they exert on their elders, are drawn with intuitive fidelity; pathos, love, and humor, as in _daddy's girl_, flowing easily from her pen. she has traveled extensively, being devoted to motoring and other outdoor sports. among more than fifty novels she has written, dealing largely with questions of home life, are: _david's little lad_; _great st. benedict's_; _a knight of to-day_ ( ); _miss toosey's mission_; _bel-marjory_ ( ); _laddie; outcast robbin, or, your brother and mine_; _a cry from the great city_; _white lillie and other tales_; _scamp and i_; _the floating light of ringfinnan_; _dot and her treasures_; _the children's kingdom: the story of great endeavor_; _the water gipsies_; _a dweller in tents_; _andrew harvey's wife_; _mou-setse: a negro hero_ ( ); _mother herring's chickens_ ( ); _a london baby: the story of king roy_ ( ); _hermie's rose-buds and other stories_; _how it all came round_; _two sisters_ ( ); _autocrat of the nursery_; _tip cat_; _scarlet anemones_; _the band of three_; _a little silver trumpet_; _our little ann_; _the angel of love_ ( ); _a world of girls_ ( ); _beforehand_; _daddy's boy_; _the o'donnells of inchfawn_; _the palace beautiful_; _sweet nancy_ ( ); _deb and the duchess_ ( ); _nobody's neighbors_; _pen_ ( ); _a girl from america_ ( ). contents i. big ben's voice. ii. a servant of god. iii. good security. iv. solitary hours. v. eager words. vi. different sort of work. vii. shopping. viii. comparisons. ix. a trip into the country. x. the return to london. xi. a new departure. xii. left alone. xiii. peter harris. xiv. the search. xv. concentration of purpose. xvi. pickles. xvii. cinderella. xviii. the metropolitan fire brigade. xix. a saintly lady. xx. caught again. xxi. safe home at last. xxii. news of sue. xxiii. amateur detective. xxiv. mother and son. xxv. about ronald. xxvi. two cups of coffee. xxvii. delayed trial. xxviii. cinderella would shield the real thief. xxix. a little heroine. xxx. what was harris to her? xxxi. a stern resolve. xxxii. an unexpected accident. xxxiii. a pointed question. xxxiv. pickles to the fore again. xxxv. the wings are growing. xxxvi. a crisis. xxxvii. the happy gathering. sue: a little heroine. chapter i. big ben's voice. sue made a great effort to push her way to the front of the crowd. the street preacher was talking, and she did not wish to lose a word. she was a small, badly made girl, with a freckled face and hair inclined to red, but her eyes were wonderfully blue and intelligent. she pushed and pressed forward into the thick of the crowd. she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looking up, saw a very rough man gazing at her. "be that you, peter harris?" said sue. "an' why didn't yer bring connie along?" "hush!" said some people in the crowd. the preacher raised his voice a little higher: "'tell his disciples and peter that he goeth before you into galilee.'" peter harris, the rough man, trembled slightly. sue found herself leaning against him. she knew quite well that his breath was coming fast. "his disciples and peter," she said to herself. the street preacher had a magnificent voice. it seemed to roll above the heads of the listening crowd, or to sink to a penetrating whisper which found its echo in their hearts. the deep, wonderful eyes of the man had a power of making people look at him. sue gazed with all her might and main. "father john be a good un," she said to herself. "he be the best man in all the world." after the discourse--which was very brief and full of stories, and just the sort which those rough people could not help listening to--a hymn was sung, and then the crowd dispersed. sue was amongst them. she was in a great hurry. she forgot all about john atkins, the little street preacher to whom she had been listening. she soon found herself in a street which was gaily lighted; there was a gin-palace at one end, another in the middle, and another at the farther end. this was saturday night: father john was fond of holding vigorous discourses on saturday nights. sue stopped to make her purchases. she was well-known in the neighborhood, and as she stepped in and out of one shop and then of another, she was the subject of a rough jest or a pleasant laugh, just as the mood of the person she addressed prompted one or other. she spent a few pence out of her meager purse, her purchases were put into a little basket, and she found her way home. the season was winter. she turned into a street back of westminster; it went by the name of adam street. it was very long and rambling, with broken pavements, uneven roadways, and very tall, narrow, and dirty houses. in a certain room on the fourth floor of one of the poorest of these houses lay a boy of between ten and eleven years of age. he was quite alone in the room, but that fact did not at all insure his being quiet. all kinds of sounds came to him--sounds from the street, sounds from below stairs, sounds from overhead. there were shrieking voices and ugly laughter, and now and then there were shrill screams. the child was accustomed to these things, however, and it is doubtful whether he heard them. he was a sad-looking little fellow, with that deadly white complexion which children who never go into the fresh air possess. his face, however, was neither discontented nor unhappy. he lay very still, with patient eyes, quite touching in their absolute submission. had any one looked hard at little giles they would have noticed something else on his face--it was a listening look. the sounds all around did not discompose him, for his eyes showed that he was waiting for something. it came. over and above the discord a voice filled the air. nine times it repeated itself, slowly, solemnly, with deep vibrations. it was "big ben" proclaiming the hour. the boy had heard the chimes which preceded the hour; they were beautiful, of course, but it was the voice of big ben himself that fascinated him. "ain't he a real beauty to-night?" thought the child. "how i wishes as sue 'ud hear him talk like that! sometimes he's more weakly in his throat, poor fellow! but to-night he's in grand voice." the discord, which for one brief moment was interrupted for the child by the beautiful, harmonious notes, continued in more deafening fashion than ever. children cried; women scolded; men cursed and swore. in the midst of the din the room door was opened and a girl entered. "sue!" cried giles. "yes," answered sue, putting down her basket as she spoke. "i'm a bit late; there wor a crowd in the street, and i went to hear him. he wor grand." "oh, worn't he?" said giles. "i never did know him to be in such beautiful voice." sue came up and stared at the small boy. her good-natured but somewhat common type of face was a great contrast to his. "whatever are you talking about?" she said. "you didn't hear him; you can't move, poor giles!" "but i did hear him," replied the boy. "i feared as i'd get off to sleep, but i didn't. i never did hear big ben in such voice--he gave out his text as clear as could be." "lor', giles!" exclaimed sue, "i didn't mean that stupid clock; i means father john. i squeezed up as close as possible to him, and i never missed a word as fell from his lips. peter harris were there too. i wonder how he felt. bad, i 'spect, when he remembers the way he treated poor connie. and oh, giles! what do yer think? the preacher spoke to him jest as clear as clear could be, and he called him by his name--peter. 'tell his disciples and peter,' father john cried, and i could feel peter harris jump ahind me." "wor that his text, sue?" "yes, all about peter. it wor wonnerful." "well, my text were, 'no more pain,'" said the boy. "i ache bad nearly always, but big ben said, 'no more pain,' as plain as he could speak, poor old fellow! it was nine times he said it. it were werry comforting." sue made no reply. she was accustomed to that sort of remark from giles. she busied herself putting the kettle on the fire to boil, and then cleaned a little frying-pan which by-and-by was to toast a herring for giles's supper and her own. "look what i brought yer," she said to the boy. "it were turning a bit, tom watkins said, and he gave it me for a ha'penny, but i guess frying and a good dash of salt 'ull make it taste fine. when the kettle boils i'll pour out your tea; you must want it werry bad." "maybe i do and maybe i don't," answered giles. "it's 'no more pain' i'm thinking of. sue, did you never consider that maybe ef we're good and patient lord christ 'ull take us to 'eaven any day?" "no," answered sue; "i'm too busy." she stood for a minute reflecting. "and i don't want to go to 'eaven yet," she continued; "i want to stay to look after you." giles smiled. "it's beautiful in 'eaven," he said. "i'd like to go, but i wouldn't like to leave you, sue." "take your tea now, there's a good fellow," answered sue, who was nothing if not matter-of-fact. "aye, dear!" she continued as she poured it out and then waited for giles to raise the cup to his lips, "peter harris do look bad. i guess he's sorry he was so rough on connie. but now let's finish our supper, and i'll prepare yer for bed, giles, for i'm desp'rate tired." chapter ii. a servant of god. john atkins, the street preacher, was a little man who led a wonderful life. he was far better educated than most people of his station, and in addition his mind was tender in feeling and very sensitive and loving. he regarded everybody as his brothers and sisters, and in especial he took to his heart all sorrowful people. he never grumbled or repined, but he looked upon his life as a pilgrimage to a better country, and did not, therefore, greatly trouble if things were not quite smooth for him. this little man had a very wide circle of friends. the fact is, he had more power of keeping peace and order in the very poor part of london, back of westminster, where he lived, than had any dignitary of the church, any rector, any curate, or any minister, be he of what persuasion he might. father john was very humble about himself. indeed, one secret of his success lay in the fact that he never thought of himself at all. having preached on this saturday evening, as was his wont, to a larger crowd than usual, he went home. as he walked a passer-by could have seen that he was lame; he used a crutch. with the winter rain beating on him he looked insignificant. presently he found the house where he had a room, went up the stairs, and entered, opening the door with a latch-key. a fire was burning here, and a small paraffin lamp with a red shade over it cast a warm glow over the little place. the moment the light fell upon father john his insignificance vanished. that was a grand head and face which rose above the crippled body. the head was high and splendidly proportioned. it was crowned with a wealth of soft brown hair, which fell low on the shoulders. the forehead was lofty, straight, and full; the mouth rather compressed, with firm lines round it; the eyes were very deep set--they were rather light gray in color, but the pupils were unusually large. the pupils and the peculiar expression of the eyes gave them a wonderful power. they could speak when every other feature in the face was quiet. "i don't like them--i dread them," said peter harris on one occasion. "aye, but don't i love 'em just!" remarked little giles. giles and sue were special friends of john atkins. they had, in fact, been left in his care by their mother three years before this story begins. this was the way they had first learned to know father john. the man had a sort of instinct for finding out when people were in trouble and when they specially needed him. there was a poor woman lying on her dying bed, and a boy and a girl were kneeling close to her. "keep a good heart up, giles," she said to the boy. "i know i'm goin' to leave yer, and you're as lame as lame can be, but then there's sue. sue has a deal o' gumption for such a young un. sue won't let yer want, giles, lad; you need never go to the workhouse while sue's alive." "no, that he needn't, mother," answered sue. "can't yer get back on to yer sofa, giles?" she added, turning to the boy. "you'll break your back kneeling by mother all this time." "no, i won't; i'd rather stay," answered the boy. his eyes were full of light; he kept on stroking his mother's hand. "go on, mother," he said. "tell us more. you're goin' to 'eaven, and you'll see father." a sob strangled his voice for a minute. "yes, i'll see my good 'usband--that is, i hope so; i can but trust--i allus have trusted, though often, ef i may say the truth, i couldn't tell what i were a-trusting to. somehow, whatever folks say, there _is_ a providence." "oh, mother!" said giles, "god is so beautiful--when you see father again you'll know that." "mother," interrupted sue, "does yer think as providence 'ull get me constant work at the sewing, enough to keep giles and me?" "i dunno, sue," answered the woman. "i've trusted a good bit all my life, and more specially since your father was took, and somehow we haven't quite starved. happen it'll be the same with giles and you." the boy sighed. his back was aching terribly. his heart was breaking at the thought of losing his mother; he struggled to continue kneeling by the bedside, but each moment the effort became greater. the children were kneeling so when a quick, light step was heard on the stairs, and a little man entered. it was too dark in the room for the children to see his face; they heard, however, a very pleasant voice. it said in cheerful tones: "why haven't you fire here, and a candle? can i help you?" "there ain't much candle left," answered giles. "and mother's dying," continued sue. "she don't mind the dark--do yer, mother?" the little man made no reply in words, but taking some matches from his pocket, and also a candle, he struck a light. he placed the candle in a sconce on the wall, and then turned to the three. "be yer a parson?" asked the woman. "i am a servant of god," answered atkins. "i'm real glad as you're a parson," she answered; "you can make it all right between almighty god and me." "you are mistaken; i can't do that. that is jesus christ's work. but i will pray with you--let me hold your hand, and we will pray together." then and there in the dismal attic father john spoke out his heart in the following simple words. even sue never forgot those words to the latest day she lived: "lord god almighty, look down upon this dying woman. thy son died for her and she knows it not. lord, she is in great darkness, and she is so near death that she has no time to learn the truth in its fullness; but thou who art in the light can show some of thy light to her. now, in her dying hour, reveal to her thyself." the dying woman fixed her glittering eyes on the strange man. when he ceased speaking she smiled; then she said, slowly: "i allus felt that i could trust in providence." she never spoke after that, and half an hour afterwards she died. this was the beginning of father john's friendship with giles and sue. the next day sue, by dint of many and anxious inquiries, found him out, and put her queer little unkempt head into his room. "ef yer please, parson, may i speak to yer 'bout giles and me?" "certainly, my little girl. sit down and tell me what i can do for you." "parson," said sue, with much entreaty in her voice and many a pucker on her brow, "what i wants to say is a good deal. i wants ter take care o' giles, to keep up the bit o' home and the bit o' victual. it 'ud kill giles ef he wor to be took to the work'us; and i promised mother as i'd keep 'im. mother wor allers a-trustin', and she trusted giles ter me." here sue's voice broke off into a sob, and she put up her dirty apron to her eyes. "don't cry, my dear," answered atkins kindly; "you must not break your word to your mother. will it cost you so much money to keep yourself and giles in that little attic?" "it ain't that," said she, proudly. "it ain't a bit as i can't work, fur i can, real smart at 'chinery needlework. i gets plenty to do, too, but that 'ere landlady, she ain't a bit like mother; she'd trusten nobody, and she up this morning, and mother scarce cold, and says as she'd not let her room to giles and me 'cept we could get some un to go security fur the rent; and we has no un as 'ud go security, so we must go away the day as mother is buried, and giles must go to the work'us; and it 'ull kill giles, and mother won't trust me no more." "don't think that, my child; nothing can shake your mother's trust where god has taken her now. but do you want me to help you?" sue found the color mounting to her little, weather-beaten face. a fear suddenly occurred to her that she had been audacious--that this man was a stranger, that her request was too great for her to ask. but something in the kindness of the eyes looking straight into hers brought sudden sunshine to her heart and courage to her resolve. with a burst, one word toppling over the other, out came the whole truth: "please, sir--please, sir, i thought as you might go security fur giles and me. we'd pay real honest. oh, sir, will you, jest because mother did trusten so werry much?" "i will, my child, and with all the heart in the world. come home with me now, and i will arrange the whole matter with your landlady." chapter iii. good security. john atkins was always wont to speak of sue and giles as among the successes of his life. this was not the first time he had gone security for his poor, and many of his poor had decamped, leaving the burden of their unpaid rent on him. he never murmured when such failures came to him. he was just a trifle more particular in looking not so much into the merits as the necessities of the next case that came to his knowledge. but no more, than if all his flock had been honest as the day, did he refuse his aid. this may have been a weakness on the man's part; very likely, for he was the sort of man whom all sensible and long-headed people would have spoken about as a visionary, an enthusiast, a believer in doing to others as he would be done by--a person, in short, without a grain of everyday sense to guide him. atkins would smile when such people lectured him on what they deemed his folly. nevertheless, though he took failure with all resignation, success, when it came to him, was stimulating, and giles and sue he classed among his successes. the mother died and was buried, but the children did not leave their attic, and sue, brave little bread-winner, managed not only to pay the rent but to keep the gaunt wolf of hunger from the door. sue worked as a machinist for a large city house. every day she rose with the dawn, made the room as tidy as she could for giles, and then started for her long walk to the neighborhood of cheapside. in a room with sixty other girls sue worked at the sewing-machine from morning till night. it was hard labor, as she had to work with her feet as well as her hands, producing slop clothing at the rate of a yard a minute. never for an instant might her eyes wander from the seam; and all this severe work was done in the midst of an ear-splitting clatter, which alone would have worn out a person not thoroughly accustomed to it. but sue was not unhappy. for three years now she had borne without breaking down this tremendous strain on her health. the thought that she was keeping giles in the old attic made her bright and happy, and her shrill young voice rose high and merry above those of her companions. no; sue, busy and honest, was not unhappy. but her fate was a far less hard one than giles's. giles had not always been lame. when first his mother held him in her arms he was both straight and beautiful. though born of poor parents and in london, he possessed a health and vigor seldom bestowed upon such children. in those days his father was alive, and earning good wages as a fireman in the london fire brigade. there was a comfortable home for both sue and giles, and giles was the very light and sunshine of his father's and mother's life. to his father he had been a special source of pride and rejoicing. his beauty alone would have made him so. sue was essentially an everyday child, but giles had a clear complexion, dark-blue eyes, and curling hair. giles as a baby and a little child was very beautiful. as his poor, feeble-looking mother carried him about--for she was poor and feeble-looking even in her palmy days--people used to turn and gaze after the lovely boy. the mother loved him passionately, but to the father he was as the apple of his eye. giles's father had married a wife some degrees below him both intellectually and socially. she was a hard-working, honest, and well-meaning soul, but she was not her husband's equal. he was a man with great force of character, great bravery, great powers of endurance. before he had joined the fire brigade he had been a sailor, and many tales did he tell to his little giles of his adventures on the sea. sue and her mother used to find these stories dull, but to giles they seemed as necessary as the air he breathed. he used to watch patiently for hours for the rare moments when his father was off duty, and then beg for the food which his keen mental appetite craved for. mason could both read and write, and he began to teach his little son. this state of things continued until giles was seven years old. then there came a dreadful black-letter day for the child; for the father, the end of life. every event of that torturing day was ever after engraved on the little boy's memory. he and his father, both in high spirits, started off for their last walk together. giles used to make it a practice to accompany his father part of the way to his station, trotting back afterwards safely and alone to his mother and sister. to-day their way lay through smithfield market, and the boy, seeing the martyrs' monument in the center of the market-place, asked his father eagerly about it. "look, father, look!" he said, pointing with his finger. "what is that?" "that is the figure of an angel, lad. do you see, it is pointing up to heaven. do you know why?" "no, father; tell us." "long ago, my lad, there were a lot of brave people brought just there where the angel stands; they were tied to stakes in the ground and set fire to and burned--burned until they died." "burned, father?" asked little giles in a voice of horror. "yes, boy. they were burned because they were so brave they would rather be burned than deny the good god. they were called martyrs, and that angel stands there now to remind people about them and to show how god took them straight to heaven." "i think they were grand," answered the boy, his eyes kindling. "can't people be like that now?" "any one who would rather die than neglect a duty has, to my mind, the same spirit," answered the man. "but now, lad, run home, for i must be off." "oh, father, you are going to that place where the wonderful new machinery is, and you said i might look at it. may i come?" the father hesitated, finally yielded, and the two went on together. but together they were never to come back. that very day, with the summer sun shining, and all the birds in the country far away singing for joy, there came a message for the brave father. he was suddenly, in the full prime of his manly vigor, to leave off doing god's work down here, doubtless to take it up with nobler powers above. a fireman literally works with his life in his hands. he may have to resign it at any moment at the call of duty. this trumpet-call, which he had never neglected, came now for giles mason. a fire broke out in the house where little giles watched with keen intelligence the new machinery. the machinery was destroyed, the child lamed for life, and the brave father, in trying to rescue him and others, was so injured by falling stones and pieces of woodwork that he only lived a few hours. the two were laid side by side in the hospital to which they were carried. "father," said the little one, nestling close to the injured and dying man, "i think people _can_ be martyrs now!" but the father was past words, though he heard the child, for he smiled and pointed upwards. the smile and the action were so significant, and reminded the child so exactly of the angel who guards the martyrs' monument, that ever afterwards he associated his brave father with those heroes and heroines of whom the sacred writer says that "the world is not worthy." chapter iv. solitary hours. giles was kept in the hospital for many weeks, even months. all that could be done was done for him; but the little, active feet were never to walk again, and the spine was so injured that he could not even sit upright. when all that could be done had been done and failed, the boy was sent back to his broken-down and widowed mother. mrs. mason had removed from the comfortable home where she lived during her husband's lifetime to the attic in a back street of westminster, where she finally died. she took in washing for a livelihood, and sue, now twelve years old, was already an accomplished little machinist.[ ] they were both too busy to have time to grieve, and at night were too utterly worn-out not to sleep soundly. they were kind to giles lying on his sick-bed; they both loved him dearly, but they neither saw, nor even tried to understand, the hunger of grief and longing which filled his poor little mind. his terrible loss, his own most terrible injuries, had developed in the boy all that sensitive nerve organism which can render life so miserable to its possessor. to hear his beloved father's name mentioned was a torture to him; and yet his mother and sue spoke of it with what seemed to the boy reckless indifference day after day. two things, however, comforted him--one the memory of the angel figure over the martyrs' monument at smithfield, the other the deep notes of big ben. his father, too, had been a martyr, and that angel stood there to signify his victory as well as the victory of those others who withstood the torture by fire; and big ben, with its solemn, vibrating notes, seemed to his vivid imagination like that same angel speaking. though an active, restless boy before his illness, he became now very patient. he would lie on his back, not reading, for he had forgotten what little his father taught him, but apparently lost in thought, from morning to night. his mother was often obliged to leave him alone, but he never murmured at his long, solitary hours; indeed, had there been any one by to listen to all the words he said to himself at these times, they would have believed that the boy enjoyed them. thus three years passed away. in those three years all the beauty had left little giles's face; all the brightness had fled from his eyes; he was now a confirmed invalid, white and drawn and pinched. then his poor, tired-out mother died. she had worked uncomplainingly, but far beyond her strength, until suddenly she sickened and in a few days was dead. giles, however, while losing a mother, had gained a friend. john atkins read the sensitive heart of the boy like a book. he came to see him daily, and soon completed the reading-lessons which his father had begun. as soon as the boy could read he was no longer unhappy. his sad and troubled mind need no longer feed on itself; he read what wise and great men thought, for atkins supplied him with books. atkins's books, it is true, were mostly of a theological nature, but once he brought him a battered shakespeare; and sue also, when cash was a little flush, found an old volume of the _arabian nights_ on a book-stall. these two latter treasures gave great food to the active imagination of little giles. footnote [ ] in july arrangements were made to provide for the families of firemen who were killed in the performance of their duty, but nothing was done for them before that date. chapter v. eager words. when john atkins was quite young he was well-to-do. his father and mother had kept a good shop, and not only earned money for their needs but were able to put by sufficient for a rainy day. john was always a small and delicate child, and as he grew older he developed disease of the spine, which not only gave him a deformed appearance but made him slightly lame. nevertheless, he was an eager little scholar, and his father was able to send him to a good school. the boy worked hard, and eagerly read and learned all that came in his way. thus life was rather pleasant than otherwise with john atkins up to his fifteenth year, but about then there came misfortunes. the investment into which his father had put all his hard-won earnings was worthless; the money was lost. this was bad enough, but there was worse to follow. not only had the money disappeared, but the poor man's heart was broken. he ceased to attend to his business; his customers left him to go elsewhere; his wife died suddenly, and he himself quickly followed her to the grave. after these misfortunes john atkins had a bad illness himself. he grew better after a time, took to cobbling as a trade, and earned enough to support himself. how he came to take up street preaching, and in consequence to be much beloved by his neighbors, happened simply enough. on a certain sunday evening he was walking home from the church where he attended, his heart all aglow with the passionate words of the preacher he had been listening to. the preacher had made bunyan the subject of his discourse, and the author of the _pilgrim's progress_ was at that time the hero of all heroes in the mind of atkins. he was thinking of his wonderful pilgrimage as he hurried home. he walked on. suddenly, turning a corner, he knocked up against a man, who, half-reeling, came full-tilt against him. "aye, peter," he said, knowing the man, and perceiving that he was far too tipsy to get to his home with safety, "i'll just walk home with you, mate. i've got an apple in my pocket for the little wench." the man made no objection, and they walked on. at the next corner they saw a crowd, all listening eagerly to the words of a large, red-faced man who, mounted on a chair, addressed them. on the burning, glowing heart of john atkins fell the following terrible words: "for there be no god, and there be nothing before us but to die as the beasts die. let us get our fill of pleasure and the like of that, neighbors, for there ain't nothing beyond the grave." "it's a lie!" roared atkins. the words had stung him like so many fiery serpents. he rushed into the midst of the crowd; he forgot peter harris; he sprang on to the chair which the other man in his astonishment had vacated, and poured out a whole string of eager, passionate words. at that moment he discovered that he had a wonderful gift. there was the message in his heart which god had put there, and he was able to deliver it. his words were powerful. the crowd, who had listened without any great excitement to the unbeliever, came close now to the man of god, applauding him loudly. atkins spoke of the fatherhood of god and of his love. "ain't that other a coward?" said two or three rough voices when atkins ceased to speak. "and he comes here talking them lies every sunday night," said one poor woman. "come you again, master, and tell us the blessed truth." this decided atkins. he went to his parish clergyman, an overworked and badly paid man, and told him the incident. he also spoke of his own resolve. he would go to these sheep who acknowledged no shepherd, and tell them as best he could of a father, a home, a hope. the clergyman could not but accept the services of this fervent city missionary. "get them to church if you can," he said. "aye, if i can," answered atkins; "but i will compel them to enter the church above--that is the main thing." soon he began to know almost all the poor folks who crowded to hear him. in their troubles he was with them; when joy came he heard first about it, and rejoiced most of all; and many a poor face of a tired woman or worn-out man, or even a little child, looking into his, grew brighter in the presence of death. chapter vi. different sort of work. connie was a very pretty girl. she was between thirteen and fourteen years of age, and very small and delicate-looking. her hair was of a pale, soft gold; her eyes were blue; she had a delicate complexion, pink and white--almost like a china figure, sue said; giles compared her to an angel. connie was in the same trade that sue earned her bread by; she also was a machinist in a large warehouse in the city. all day long she worked at the sewing-machine, going home with sue night after night, glad of sue's sturdy support, for connie was much more timid than her companion. connie was the apple of harris's eye, his only child. he did everything he could for her; he lived for her. if any one could make him good, connie could; but she was sadly timid; she dreaded the terrible moments when he returned home, having taken more than was good for him. at these times she would slink away to visit giles and sue, and on more than one occasion she had spent the night with the pair rather than return to her angry father. some months, however, before this story begins, a terrible misfortune had come to peter harris. he had come home on a certain evening worse than usual from the effects of drink. connie happened to be in. she had dressed herself with her usual exquisite neatness. she always kept the place ship-shape. the hearth was always tidily swept. she managed her father's earnings, which were quite considerable, and the wretched man could have had good food and a comfortable home, and been happy as the day was long, if only the craze for drink had not seized him. connie was very fond of finery, and she was now trimming a pretty hat to wear on the following sunday. not long ago she had made a new friend, a girl at the warehouse of the name of agnes coppenger. agnes was older than connie. she was the kind of girl who had a great admiration for beauty, and when she saw that people turned to look at pretty connie with her sweet, refined face and delicate ways, she hoped that by having such a pleasant companion she also might come in for her share of admiration. she therefore began to make much of connie. she praised her beauty, and invited her to her own home. there connie made companions who were not nearly such desirable ones as sue and giles. she began to neglect sue and giles, and to spend more and more of her time with agnes. on a certain day when the two girls were working over their sewing-machines, the whir of the numerous machines filling the great warehouse, agnes turned to connie. "when we go out at morning break i 'ave a word to say to yer." connie's eyes brightened. "you walk with me," whispered agnes again. an overseer came round. talking was forbidden in the great room, and the girls went on with their mechanical employment, turning out long seam after long seam of delicate stitches. the fluff from the work seemed to smother connie that morning. she had inherited her mother's delicacy. she coughed once or twice. there was a longing within her to get away from this dismal, this unhealthy life. she felt somehow, down deep in her heart, that she was meant for better things. the child was by nature almost a poet. she could have worshiped a lovely flower. as to the country, what her feelings would have been could she have seen it almost baffles description. now, sue, working steadily away at her machine a little farther down the room, had none of these sensations. provided that sue could earn enough money to keep giles going, that was all she asked of life. she was as matter-of-fact as a young girl could be; and as to pining for what she had not got, it never once entered her head. at twelve o'clock there was a break of half-an-hour. the machinists were then turned out of the building. it did not matter what sort of day it was, whether the sun shone with its summer intensity, or whether the snow fell in thick flakes--whatever the condition of the outside world, out all the working women had to go. none could skulk behind; all had to seek the open air. connie coughed now as the bitter blast blew against her cheeks. "isn't it cold?" she said. she expected to see agnes by her side, but it was sue she addressed. "i've got a penny for pease-pudding to-day," said sue. "will you come and have a slice, connie? or do yer want somethin' better? your father, peter harris, can let yer have more than a penny for yer dinner." "oh, yes," answered connie; "'tain't the money--i 'aven't got not a bit of happetite, not for nothing; but i want to say a word to agnes coppenger, and i don't see her." "here i be," said agnes, coming up at that moment. "come right along, connie; i've got a treat for yer." the last words were uttered in a low whisper, and sue, finding she was not wanted, went off in another direction. she gave little sighs as she did so. what was wrong with pretty connie, and why did she not go with her? it had been her custom to slip her hand inside sue's sturdy arm. during the half-hour interval, the girls used to repair together to the nearest cheap restaurant, there to secure what nourishing food their means permitted. they used to chatter to one another, exchanging full confidences, and loving each other very much. but for some time now connie had only thought of agnes coppenger, and sue felt out in the cold. "can't be helped," she said to herself; "but if i am not mistook, agnes is a bad un, and the less poor connie sees of her the better." sue entered the restaurant, which was now packed full of factory girls, and she asked eagerly for her penn'orth of pease-pudding. meanwhile connie and agnes were very differently employed. when the two girls found themselves alone, agnes looked full at connie and said: "i'm going to treat yer." "oh, no, you ain't," said connie, who was proud enough in her way. "yes, but i be," said agnes; "i ha' lots o' money, bless yer! here, we'll come in here." an a.b.c. shop stood invitingly open just across the road. connie had always looked at these places of refreshment with open-eyed admiration, and with the sort of sensation which one would have if one stood at the gates of paradise. to enter any place so gorgeous as an a.b.c., to be able to sit down and have one's tea or coffee or any other refreshment at one of those little white marble tables, seemed to her a degree of refinement scarcely to be thought about. the a.b.c. was a sort of forbidden fruit to connie, but agnes had been there before, and agnes had described the delight of the place. "the quality come in 'ere," said agnes, "an' they horders all sorts o' things, from mutton-chops to poached heggs. i am goin' in to-day, and so be you." "oh, no," said connie, "you can't afford it." "that's my lookout," answered agnes. "i've half-a-crown in my pocket, and ef i choose to have a good filling meal, and ef i choose that you shall have one too, why, that is my lookout." as agnes spoke she pulled her companion through the swinging door, and a minute later the two young girls had a little table between them, not far from the door. agnes called in a lofty voice to one of the waitresses. "coffee for two," she said, "and rolls and butter and poached heggs; and see as the heggs is well done, and the toast buttered fine and thick. now then, look spruce, won't yer?" the waitress went off to attend to agnes's requirements. agnes sat back in her chair with a sort of lofty, fine-lady air which greatly impressed poor connie. by-and-by the coffee, the rolls and butter, and the poached eggs appeared. a little slip of paper with the price of the meal was laid close to agnes's plate, and she proceeded to help her companion to the good viands. "it's this sort of meal you want hevery day," she said. "now then, eat as hard as ever you can, and while you're eating let me talk, for there's a deal to say, and we must be back in that factory afore we can half do justice to our wittles." connie sipped her coffee, and looked hard at her companion. "what is it?" she asked suddenly. "what's all the fuss, agnes? why be you so chuff to poor sue, and whatever 'ave you got to say?" "this," said agnes. "you're sick o' machine-work, ain't you?" "oh, that i be!" said connie, stretching her arms a little, and suppressing a yawn. "it seems to get on my narves, like. i am that miserable when i'm turning that horrid handle and pressing that treadle up and down, up and down, as no words can say. i 'spect it's the hair so full of fluff an' things, too; some'ow i lose my happetite for my or'nary feed when i'm working at that 'orrid machine." "i don't feel it that way," said agnes in a lofty tone. "but then, _i_ am wery strong. i can heat like anything, whatever i'm a-doing of. there, connie; don't waste the good food. drink up yer corffee, and don't lose a scrap o' that poached egg, for ef yer do it 'ud be sinful waste. well, now, let me speak. i know quite a different sort o' work that you an' me can both do, and ef you'll come with me this evening i can tell yer all about it." "what sort of work?" asked connie. "beautiful, refined--the sort as you love. but i am not going to tell yer ef yer give me away." "what do you mean by that, agnes?" "i means wot i say--i'll tell yer to-night ef yer'll come 'ome with me." "yer mean that i'm to spend all the evening with yer?" asked connie. "yes--that's about it. _you_ are to come 'ome with me, and we'll talk. why, bless yer! with that drinkin' father o' yourn, wot do you want all alone by yer lonesome? you give me a promise. and now i must pay hup, and we'll be off." "i'll come, o' course," said connie after brief reflection. "why shouldn't i?" she added. "there's naught to keep me to home." the girls left the a.b.c. shop and returned to their work. whir! whir! went the big machines. the young heads were bent over their accustomed toil; the hands on the face of the great clock which connie so often looked at went on their way. slowly--very slowly--the time sped. would that long day ever come to an end? the machinists' hours were from eight o'clock in the morning to six in the evening. sometimes, when there were extra lots of ready-made clothes to be produced, they were kept till seven or even eight o'clock. but for this extra work there was a small extra pay, so that few of them really minded. but connie dreaded extra hours extremely. she was not really dependent on the work, although peter would have been very angry with his girl had she idled her time. she herself, too, preferred doing this to doing nothing. but to-night, of all nights, she was most impatient to get away with agnes in order to discover what that fascinating young person's secret was. she looked impatiently at the clock; so much so that agnes herself, as she watched her eyes, chuckled now and then. "she'll be an easy prey," thought agnes coppenger. "i'll soon get 'er into my power." at six o'clock there was no further delay; no extra work was required, and the machinists poured into the sloppy, dark, and dreary streets. "come along now, quickly," said agnes. "don't wait for sue; sue has nothing to do with you from this time out." "oh dear! oh dear!" said connie. "but i don't want to give up sue and giles. you ha' never seen little giles mason?" "no," replied agnes, "and don't want to. wot be giles to me?" "oh," said connie, "ef yer saw 'im yer couldn't but love 'im. he's the wery prettiest little fellow that yer ever clapped yer two eyes on--with 'is delicate face an' 'is big brown eyes--and the wonnerful thoughts he have, too. poetry ain't in it. be yer fond o' poetry yerself, agnes?" "i fond o' poetry?" almost screamed agnes. "not i! that is, i never heerd it--don't know wot it's like. i ha' no time to think o' poetry. i'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and fretting how to get myself a smart 'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing about it. but you, now--you never think on yer clothes." "oh yes, but i do," said connie; "and i ha' got a wery pwitty new dress now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the pawnshop." "lor', now, did he?" said agnes. "wot sort be it, connie?" "dark blue, with blue velvet on it. it looks wery stylish." "you'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress," said agnes. "you've the face of a lydy--that any one can see." "have i?" said connie. she put up her somewhat roughened hand to her smooth little cheeks. "yes, you 'ave; and wot i say is this--yer face is yer fortoon. now, look yer 'ere. we'll stand at this corner till the westminster 'bus comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery near 'ome. yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, connie?" "'tain't likely," replied connie; "'e seldom comes in until it's time for 'im to go to bed." "well then, that's all right. when we get to westminster, you skid down adam street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and changes yer dress. into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below stairs." this programme was followed out in all its entirety by connie. the omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. connie soon reached her room. no father there, no fire in the grate. she turned on the gas and looked around her. the room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not bad of its sort. peter harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the sitting-room, but connie had a little room all to herself just beyond. here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new costume which her father had given her. she was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. then she washed her face and hands, and brushed back her soft, glistening, pale-golden hair, and put on the dark-blue dress, and her little blue velvet cap to match, and--little guessing how lovely she appeared in this dress, which simply transformed the pretty child into one of quite another rank of life--she ran quickly downstairs. a young man of the name of anderson, whom she knew very slightly, was passing by. he belonged to the fire brigade, and was one of the best and bravest firemen in london. he had a pair of great, broad shoulders, and a very kind face. it looked almost as refined as connie's own. anderson gave her a glance, puzzled and wondering. he felt half-inclined to speak, but she hurried by him, and the next minute agnes gripped her arm. "my word, ain't you fine!" said that young lady. "you _be_ a gel to be proud of! won't yer do fine, jest! now then, come along, and let's be quick." connie followed her companion. they went down several side-streets, and took several short cuts. they passed through the roughest and worst part of the purlieus at the back of westminster. at last they entered a broader thoroughfare, and there agnes stopped. "why, yer never be livin' here?" asked connie. "no, i bean't. you'll come to my 'ome afterwards. i want to take yer to see a lydy as maybe'll take a fancy to yer." "oh!" said connie, feeling both excited and full of wonder. the girls entered a side passage, and presently connie, to her astonishment, found herself going upwards--up and up and up--in a lift. the lift went up as far as it would go. the girls got out. agnes went first, and connie followed. they walked down the passage, and agnes gave a very neat double knock on the door, which looked like an ordinary front door to a house. the door was opened by a woman rather loudly dressed, but with a handsome face. "how do you do, mrs. warren?" said agnes. "i ha' brought the young lydy i spoke to yer about. shall us both come in?" "oh, yes, certainly," said mrs. warren. she stood aside, and connie, still following her companion, found herself at the other side of the neat door. the place inside was bright with electric light, and the stout, showily dressed lady, going first, conducted the girls into a room which agnes afterwards spoke of as the dining-room. the lady sat down in a very comfortable arm-chair, crossed her legs, and desired connie to come forward and show herself. "take off yer 'at," she said. connie did so. "you're rather pretty." connie was silent. "i want," said the stout woman, "a pretty gel, something like you, to come and sit with me from ten to two o'clock hevery day. yer dooties'll be quite light, and i'll give yer lots o' pretty clothes and good wages." "but what'll i have to do?" asked connie. "jest to sit with me an' keep me company; i'm lonesome here all by myself." connie looked puzzled. "you ask wot wages yer'll get," said agnes, poking connie on the arm. connie's blue eyes looked up. the showy lady was gazing at her very intently. "i'll give yer five shillin's a week," she said, "and yer keep, and some carst-off clothes--my own--now and again; and ef that bean't a bargain, i don't know wot be." connie was silent. "you 'ad best close with it," said agnes. "it's a charnce once in a 'undred. yer'll be very 'appy with mrs. warren--her's a real lydy." "yes, that i be," said mrs. warren. "i come of a very hold family. my ancestors come hover with william the conqueror." connie did not seem impressed by this fact. "will yer come or will yer not?" said mrs. warren. "i'll take yer jaunts, too--i forgot to mention that. often on a fine saturday, you an' me--we'll go to the country together. you don't know 'ow fine that 'ull be. we'll go to the country and we'll 'ave a spree. did yer never see the country?" "no," said connie, in a slow voice, "but i ha' dreamt of it." "she's the sort, ma'am," interrupted agnes, "wot dreams the queerest things. she's hall for poetry and flowers and sech like. she's not matter-o'-fack like me." "jest the sort i want," said mrs. warren. "i--i loves poetry. you shall read it aloud to me, my gel--or, better still, i'll read it to you. an' as to flowers--why, yer shall pluck 'em yer own self, an' yer'll see 'em a-blowin' an' a-growin', yer own self. we'll go to the country next saturday. there, now--ain't that fine?" connie looked puzzled. there certainly was a great attraction at the thought of going into the country. she hated the machine-work. but, all the same, somehow or other she did not like mrs. warren. "i'll think o' it and let yer know," she said. but when she uttered these words the stately dressed and over-fine lady changed her manner. "there's no thinking now," she said. "you're 'ere, and yer'll stay. you go out arter you ha' been at my house? you refuse my goodness? not a bit o' it! yer'll stay." "oh, yes, connie," said agnes in a soothing tone. "but i don't want to stay," said connie, now thoroughly frightened. "i want to go--and to go at once. let me go, ma'am; i--i don't like yer!" poor connie made a rush for the door, but agnes flew after her and clasped her round the waist. "yer _be_ a silly!" she said. "yer jest stay with her for one week." "but i--i must go and tell father," said poor connie. "you needn't--i'll go an' tell him. don't yer get into such a fright. don't, for goodness' sake! why, think of five shillin's a week, and jaunts into the country, and beautiful food, and poetry read aloud to yer, and hall the rest!" "i has most select poetry here," said mrs. warren. "did yer never yere of a man called tennyson? an' did yer never read that most touching story of the consumptive gel called the 'may queen'? 'ef ye're wakin' call me hearly, call me hearly, mother dear.' i'll read yer that. it's the most beauteous thing." "it sounds lovely," said connie. she was always arrested by the slightest thing which touched her keen fancy and rich imagination. "and you 'ates the machines," said agnes. "oh yes, i 'ates the machines," cried connie. then she added after a pause: "i'm 'ere, and i'll stay for one week. but i must go back first to get some o' my bits o' duds, and to tell father. you'd best let me go, ma'am; i won't be long away." "but i can't do that," said mrs. warren; "it's a sight too late for a young, purty gel like you to be out. agnes, now, can go and tell yer father, and bring wot clothes yer want to-morrow.--agnes, yer'll do that, won't yer?" "yes--that i will." "they'll never let me stay," said connie, reflecting on this fact with some satisfaction. "we won't ax him, my dear," said mrs. warren. "i must go, really, now," said agnes. "you're all right, connie; you're made. you'll be a fine lydy from this day out. and i'll come and see yer.--w'en may i come, mrs. warren?" "to-morrer evenin'," said mrs. warren. "you and connie may have tea together to-morrer evenin', for i'm goin' out with some friends to the thayertre." poor connie never quite knew how it happened, but somehow she found herself as wax in the strong hands of mrs. warren. connie, it is true, gave a frightened cry when she heard agnes shut the hall door behind her, and she felt positive that she had done exceedingly wrong. but mrs. warren really seemed kind, although connie could not but wish that she was not quite so stout, and that her face was not of such an ugly brick red. she gave the girl a nice supper, and talked to her all the time about the lovely life she would have there. "ef i takes to yer i'll maybe hadopt yer as my own daughter, my dear," she said. "you're a wery purty gel. and may i ax how old you are, my love?" connie answered that she was fourteen, and mrs. warren remarked that she was small for her age and looked younger. she showed the girl her own smart clothing, and tried the effect of her bit of fur round connie's delicate throat. "there," she said; "you can keep it. it's only rabbit; i can't afford no dearer. but yer'll look real foine in it when we goes out for our constooshionul to-morrow morning." connie was really touched and delighted with the present of the fur. she got very sleepy, too, after supper--more sleepy than she had ever felt in her life--and when mrs. warren suggested that her new little handmaid should retire early to bed, the girl was only too glad to obey. chapter vii. shopping. connie slept without dreams that night, and in the morning awoke with a start. what was the matter? was she late? it was dreadful to be late at the doors of that cruel factory. those who were late were docked of their pay. peter harris was always very angry when his daughter did not bring in her full earnings on saturday night. connie cried out, "father, father!" and then sat up in bed and pushed her golden hair back from her little face. what was the matter? where was she? why, what a pretty room! there was scarcely any light yet, and she could not see the different articles of furniture very distinctly, but it certainly seemed to her that she was in a most elegant apartment. her room at home was--oh, so bare! just a very poor trundle-bed, and a little deal chest of drawers with a tiny looking-glass on top, and one broken chair to stand by her bedside. this was all. but her present room had a carpet on the floor, and there were pictures hanging on the walls, and there were curtains to the windows, and the little bed on which she lay was covered with a gay counterpane--soft--almost as soft as silk. where could she be? it took her almost a minute to get back the memory of last night. then she shuddered with the most curious feeling of mingled ecstasy and pain. she was not going to the factory to-day. she was not going to work at that horrid sewing-machine. she was not to meet sue. she was not to be choked by the horrid air. she, connie, had got a new situation, and mrs. warren was a very nice woman, although she was so fat and her dress was so loud that even connie's untrained taste could not approve of it. just then a voice called to her: "get up, my dear; i'll have a cosy breakfast ready for yer by the time yer've put yourself tidily into yer clothes." "yes," thought connie to herself, "i've done well to come. agnes is right. i wonder what she'll say when she comes to tea this evening. i wonder if she met father. i do 'ope as father won't find me. i'd real like to stay on here for a bit; it's much, much nicer than the cruel sort of life i 'ave to home." connie dressed by the light which was now coming in more strongly through the window. mrs. warren pushed a can of hot water inside the door, and the girl washed with a strange, unwonted sense of luxury. she had no dress but the dark-blue, and she was therefore forced to put it on. when she had completed her toilet she entered the sitting-room. mrs. warren, in her morning _déshabille_, looked a more unpleasing object than ever. her hair was in tight curl-papers, and she wore a very loose and very dirty dressing-gown, which was made of a sort of pattern chintz, and gave her the effect of being a huge pyramid of coarse, faded flowers. there was coffee, however, which smelled very good, on the hearth, and there was some toast and bacon, and some bread, butter, and jam. connie and mrs. warren made a good meal, and then mrs. warren began to talk of the day's programme. "i have a lot of shopping to do this morning," she said, "and we'll go out not later than ten o'clock sharp. it's wonderful wot a lot o' things i has to buy. there's sales on now, too, and we'll go to some of 'em. maybe i'll get yer a bit o' ribbon--you're fond o' blue ribbon, i take it. well, maybe i'll get it for yer--there's no saying. anyhow, we'll walk down the streets, and wot shops we don't go into we'll press our noses against the panes o' glass and stare in. now then, my dear, yer don't s'pose that i'll allow you to come out walking with the likes o' me with yer 'air down like that." "why, 'ow is it to be done?" said connie. "i take it that it's beautiful; i ha' done it more tidy than ever." "but i don't want it tidy. now then, you set down yere close to the fire, so that you can toast yer toes, and i'll see to yer 'air." connie was forced to obey; more and more was she wax in the hands of her new employer. mrs. warren quickly took the hair-pins out of connie's thick plait. she let it fall down to her waist, and then she unplaited it and brushed out the shining waves of lovely hair, and then said, with a smile of satisfaction: "now, i guess there won't be anybody prettier than you to walk abroad to-day." "but i can't," said connie--"i don't ever wear my 'air like that; it's only young lydies as does that." "well, ain't you a lydy, and ain't i a lydy? you're going out with one, and yer'll wear yer 'air as i please." connie shivered; but presently the little dark-blue cap was placed over the masses of golden hair, the gray fur was fastened round the slender throat, and connie marched out with mrs. warren. mrs. warren's own dress was in all respects the reverse of her pretty young companion's. it consisted of a very voluminous silk cloak, which was lined with fur, and which gave the already stout woman a most portly appearance. on her head she wore a bonnet covered with artificial flowers, and she enveloped her hands in an enormous muff. "now, off we go," said mrs. warren. "you'll enjoy yerself, my purty." it is quite true that connie did--at least, at first. this was the time of day when, with the exception of sundays, she was always buried from view in the ugly warehouse. she was unaccustomed to the morning sunshine, and she was certainly unaccustomed to the handsome streets where mrs. warren conducted her. they walked on, and soon found themselves in crowded thoroughfares. at last they stopped before the doors of a great shop, into which crowds of people were going. "oh, what a pretty girl!" said connie to her companion. a young girl, very like connie herself--so like as to make the resemblance almost extraordinary--was entering the shop, accompanied by an old gentleman who was supporting himself by the aid of a gold-headed stick. the girl also had golden hair. she was dressed in dark blue, and had gray fur round her neck. but above the fur there peeped out a little pale-blue handkerchief made of very soft silk. "that's purty," whispered mrs. warren to connie. "yer'd like a 'andkercher like that--yer shall 'ave one. get on in front o' me; you're slimmer nor me; i want to push into the shop." connie obeyed. as she passed the fair young girl, the girl seemed to notice the extraordinary likeness between them, for she turned and looked at connie and smiled. she also said something to her companion, who also stared at the girl. but stout mrs. warren poked connie from behind, and she had to push forward, and presently found herself in the shop. there it seemed to her that mrs. warren did very little buying. it is true she stopped at several counters, always choosing those which were most surrounded by customers; it is true she pulled things about, poking at the goods offered for sale, and making complaints about them, but always keeping connie well to the fore. a delicate color had sprung into the girl's cheeks, and almost every one turned to look at her. the shopmen turned; the shopgirls gazed; the customers forgot what they wanted in their amazement at connie's beauty. her hair, in especial, was the subject of universal admiration--its thickness, its length, its marvelous color. the girl herself was quite unconscious of the admiration which her appearance produced, but mrs. warren knew well what a valuable acquisition she had made in little connie. when they left the shop she seemed to be in high good-humor. but, lo and behold! a change had taken place in the outside world. the sun, so bright and glorious, had hidden himself behind a murky yellow fog, which was coming up each moment thicker and thicker from the river. "oh dear!" said mrs. warren. "oh dear!" cried connie too. "we won't get lost, will us, ma'am?" "lost?" cried mrs. warren, with a sniff. "now, i call this fog the most beautiful fortunation thing that could have 'appened. we'll have a real jolly morning now, connie. you come along o' me. there, child--walk a bit in front. why, ye're a real, real beauty. i feel sort of ashamed to be walkin' with yer. let folks think that you're out with yer nurse, my pretty. yes, let 'em think that, and that she's screening yer from misfortun' wid her own ample person." thus connie walked for several hours that day. in and out of crowded thoroughfares the two perambulated. into shops they went, and out again they came. everywhere connie went first, and mrs. warren followed very close behind. at last the good lady said that she had done her morning's shopping. connie could not well recall what she had bought, and the pair trudged soberly home. when they got there mrs. warren went straight to her own bedroom, and connie sat down by the fire, feeling quite tired with so much exercise. presently mrs. warren came out again. she had changed her dress, and had put on an ample satin gown of black with broad yellow stripes. she was in high good-humor, and going up to connie, gave her a resounding smack on the cheek. "now," she said, "yer won't think 'ard of poor mammy warren. see wot i've gone an' got an' bought for yer." connie turned quickly. a soft little blue handkerchief, delicately folded in tissue-paper, was laid on the table by the girl. "why--why--that ain't for me!" said connie. "yes, but it be! why shouldn't it be for you? i saw yer lookin' at that purty young lydy who was as like yer as two peas. i watched 'ow yer stared at the blue 'andkercher, and 'ow yer sort o' longed for it." "but indeed--indeed i didn't." "anyhow, here's another, and yer can have it, and wear it peeping out among yer fur. i take it that yer blue 'andkercher'll take the cake." "then you've bought it for me?" said connie. "yus--didn't i zay so?" "but i never seen yer do it," said connie. "seen me do it?" said mrs. warren, her eyes flashing with anger. "you was too much taken up with yer own conceits, my gel--hevery one staring at yer, 'cos poor old mammy warren 'ad made yer so beautiful. but though you was full to the brim o' yourself, i warn't so selfish; i were thinkin' o' you--and yere's yer 'andkercher." connie took up the handkerchief slowly. strange as it may seem, it gave her no pleasure. she said, "thank you, mrs. warren," in a subdued voice, and took it into her little bedroom. connie felt that she did not particularly want to wear the handkerchief. she did not know why, but a trouble, the first of the many troubles she was to undergo in the terrible society of mrs. warren, came over her. she went back again and sat down by the fire. during the greater part of the afternoon the stout woman slept. connie watched her furtively. a strong desire to get up and run away seized her. could she not get out of that house and go back to sue and giles? how happy she would feel in giles's bare little room! how she would enjoy talking with the child! with what wonder they would both listen to big ben as he spoke in that voice of his the number of the hours! giles would make up fairy-tales for connie to listen to. how connie did love the "wonnerful" things he said about the big "woice"! one day it was cheerful, another day sad, another day very encouraging, another day full of that noble influence which the child himself so largely exercised. at all times it was an angel voice, speaking to mankind from high above this sordid world. it helped giles, and it helped connie too. she sat by the fire in this well-furnished room and looked anxiously towards the door. once she got up on tiptoe. she had almost reached the door, but had not quite done so, when mrs. warren turned, gave a loud snore, and opened her eyes. she did not speak when she saw connie, but her eyes seemed to say briefly, "well, don't you go any farther"; and connie turned back into her small bedroom. sharp at four o'clock mrs. warren started up. "now then," she said, "i'm goin' to get the tea ready." "can i help you, ma'am?" asked connie. "shall i make you some toast, ma'am?" "toast?" cried mrs. warren. "toast? do you think i'd allow yer to spile yer purty face with the fire beatin' on it? not a bit o' it! you set down there--it's a foine lydy you be, and i ha' to take care of yer." "but why should yer do that, ma'am? i ain't put into the world to do naught. i ha' always worked 'ard--father wanted me to." "eh?" said mrs. warren. "but i'm yer father and mother both now, and i don't want yer to." "don't yer?" said connie. she sank down and folded her hands in her lap. "i must do summut to whiten them 'ands o' yours," said mrs. warren; "and i'm goin' to get yer real purty stockings an' boots to wear. you must look the real lydy--a real lydy wears neat boots and good gloves." "but i ain't a lydy," said connie; "an' wots more," she added, "i don't want to be." "you be a lydy," said mrs. warren; "the halmighty made yer into one." "i don't talk like one," said connie. "no; but then, yer needn't speak. oh lor'! i suppose that's agnes a-poundin' at the door. oh, stand back, child, and i'll go to her." mrs. warren opened the door, and agnes stepped in. "i ha' took french leave," she said. "i dunno wot they'll say at the factory, but yere i be. you promised, you know, mrs. warren, ma'am, as i shouldn't 'ave naught to do with factory life, niver no more." "you needn't," said mrs. warren. "i ha' a deal o' work for yer to get through; but come along into my bedroom and we'll talk over things." mrs. warren and agnes disappeared into the bedroom of the former, mrs. warren having first taken the precaution to lock the sitting-room door and put the key into her pocket. poor connie felt more than ever that she was a prisoner. more than ever did she long for the old life which she had lived. notwithstanding her father's drinking bouts, notwithstanding his cruelty and neglect, the free life, the above-board life--even the dull, dull factory life--were all as heaven compared to this terrible, mysterious existence in mrs. warren's comfortable rooms. chapter viii. comparisons. mrs. warren and agnes talked together for quite three quarters of an hour. when they came out of the bedroom, mrs. warren was wearing a tight-fitting cloth jacket, which made her look more enormous even than the cloak had done. she had a small black bonnet on her head, over which she had drawn a spotted net veil. her hands were encased in decent black gloves, her skirt was short, and her boots tidy. she carried in her hand a fair-sized brown leather bag; and telling connie that she was "goin' out," and would be back when she saw her and not before, left the two girls alone in the little sitting-room. after she had shut the door behind her, agnes went over to it, and possessing herself of the key, slipped it into her pocket. then she stared hard at connie. "well," she said, "an' 'ow do yer like it?" "i don't like it at all," answered connie, "i want to go--i will go. i'd rayther a sight be back in the factory. mrs. warren--she frightens me." "you be a silly," said agnes. "you talk like that 'cos you knows no better. why, 'ere you are as cosy and well tended as gel could be. look at this room. think on the soft chair you're sittin' upon; think on the meals; think on yer bedroom; think on the beautiful walk you 'ad this morning. my word! you be a silly! no work to do, and nothing whatever to trouble yer, except to act the lydy. my word! ef _you're_ discontent, the world'll come to an end. wish i were in your shoes--that i do." "well, agnes, get into them," said connie. "i'm sure you're more than welcome. i'm jest--jest pinin' for wot you thinks naught on. i want to see giles and sue and--and--father. you git into my shoes--you like it--i don't like it." agnes burst into a loud laugh. "my word!" she said, "you're be a gel and a 'arf. wouldn't i jest jump at gettin' into your shoes if i could? but there! yer shoes don't fit me, and that's the truth." "don't fit yer, don't they?" exclaimed connie. "wot do yer mean by that?" "too small," said agnes, sticking out her ugly foot in its broken boot--"too genteel--too neat. no one could make a lydy o' me. look at my 'ands." she spread out her coarse, stumpy fingers. "look at my face. why, yere's a glass; let's stand side by side, an' then let's compare. big face; no nose to speak of; upper lip two inches long; mouth--slit from ear to ear; freckles; eyes what the boys call pig's eyes; 'air rough and coarse; figure stumpy. now look at you. face fair as a lily; nose straight and small; mouth like a rosebud; eyes blue as the sky. no, connie, it can't be done; what with that face o' yourn, and that gold 'air o' yourn, you're a beauty hout and hout. yer face is yer fortoon', my purty maid." "my face ain't my fortune." "things don't fit, connie. you ha' got to stay yere--and be a fine lydy. that's the way you works for yer livin'--i ha' to work in a different sort." "what sort? oh, do tel me!" "no; that's my secret. but i've spoke out plain with the old woman, and i'm comin' yere saturday night--not to stay, bless yer! no, but to do hodd jobs for her; for one thing, to look arter you when she's out. i 'spect she'll get ronald back now you ha' come." "ronald!" cried connie. "who's he?" "never you mind; you'll know when yer see of 'im." "then i'm a prisoner," said connie--"that's what it means." "well, well! take it like that ef yer like. ain't it natural that mrs. warren should want yer to stay now she ha' got yer? when yer stays willin'-like, as yer will all too soon, then yer'll 'ave yer liberty. hin an' out then yer may go as yer pleases; there'll be naught to interfere. yer'll jest do yer dooty then, and yer dooty'll be to please old mammy warren." "has my father missed me?" asked connie, who saw by this time that she could not possibly cope with agnes; if ever she was to effect her escape from this horrible place, it must be by guile. "'ow is father?" she asked. "'ave he missed me yet?" "know nothing 'bout him. don't think he have, for the boys, dick and hal, was 'ome when i come back. they 'ad no news for me at all." "you saw sue to-day?" "yus, i saw her, an' i kep' well away from her." "agnes," said connie in a very pleading voice, "ef i must stay 'ere--an' i don't know wot i ha' done to be treated like this--will yer take a message from me to little giles?" "wot sort?" asked agnes. "tell 'im straight from me that i can't come to see 'im for a few days, an' ax him to pray for me; an' tell him that i 'ears the woice same as he 'ears the woice, and tell 'im as it real comforts me. wull yer do that, agnes--wull yer, now?" "maybe," said agnes; then after a pause she added, "or maybe i won't. i 'ates yer methody sort o' weak-minded folks. that's the worst o' you, connie; you're real weak-minded, for all ye're so purty, what wid yer 'prays' an' yer woice, indeed!" "hark! it's sounding now," said connie. she raised her little delicate hand, and turned her head to listen. the splendid notes filled the air. connie murmured something under her breath. "i know wot giles 'ud say 'bout the woice to-night," she murmured. but agnes burst into a loud laugh. "my word!" she said. "you 're talkin' o' big ben. well, you be a caution." "_he that shall endure_," whispered connie; and then a curious hidden sunshine seemed to come out and radiate her small face. she folded her hands. the impatience faded from her eyes. she sat still and quiet. "wot hever's the matter with yer?" asked agnes. "naught as yer can understand, aggie." "let's get tea," said agnes. she started up and made vigorous preparations. soon the tea was served and placed upon the little centre-table. it was an excellent tea, with shrimps and bread-and-butter, and cake and jam. agnes ate enormously, but connie was not as hungry as usual. "prime, i call it!" said agnes. "my word! to think of gettin' all this and not workin' a bit for it! you be in luck, connie harris--you be in luck." when the meal was over, and agnes had washed up and made the place tidy, she announced her intention of going to sleep. "i'm dead-tired," she said, "and swallerin' sech a fillin' meal have made me drowsy. but i ha' the key in my pocket, so don't you be trying that little gime o'running away." agnes slept, and snored in her sleep, and connie restlessly walked to the window and looked out. when big ben sounded again her eyes filled with tears. she had never spent such a long and dismal evening in her life. mammy warren did not return home until between ten and eleven o'clock. immediately on her arrival, agnes took her departure. mammy warren then locked the door, and having provided herself with a stiff glass of whisky-and-water, desired connie to hurry off to bed. "yer'll be losing yer purty sleep," she said, "and then where'll yer be?" the next day connie again walked abroad with mrs. warren. once more she was dressed in the dark-blue costume, with her golden hair hanging in a great fleece down her back. but when she made her appearance without the little blue handkerchief, mrs. warren sent her back for it. "i know wot i'm about," she said. "the blue in the 'andkercher'll add to the blue in yer eyes. pop it on, gel, and be quick." connie obeyed. "i don't--want to," she said. "and _w'y_ don't yer?" the woman's voice was very fierce. "i'm somehow sort o' feared." "take that for bein' sort o' feared," said mrs. warren; and she hit the child so fierce a blow on the arm that connie cried out from the pain. poor connie was a very timorous creature, however, and the effect of the blow was to make her meek and subservient. the blue handkerchief was tied on and arranged to mrs. warren's satisfaction, and they both went out into the open air. they went by 'bus to quite a different part of the town on this occasion, and mrs. warren again assured her little companion that she had a great deal of shopping to get through. "that is why i wear this cloak," she said; "i ha' bags fastened inside to hold the things as i buy." once again they got into a crowd, and once again connie was desired to walk on a little way in front, and once again people turned to look at the slim, fair child with her beautiful face and lovely hair. once more they entered several shops, and invariably chose the most crowded parts--so crowded that mrs. warren whispered to connie: "we must wait till our turn, honey. we must ha' patience, dearie." they had patience. mrs. warren did absolutely purchase half-a-dozen very coarse pocket-handkerchiefs, keeping connie close to her all the time. one of these she straightway presented to the girl, saying in a loud voice as she did so to the attendant: "i'm out with the purty dear to give her exercise. i am her nurse. she mustn't walk too far. no, thank you, mum, i'll carry the 'andkerchers 'ome myself; i won't trouble yer to send them to portland mansions.--now, come along, my dear; we mustn't waste our time in this 'ot shop. we must be hout, taking of our exercise." they walked a very, very long way that morning, and mrs. warren, contrary to her yesterday's plan, did now and then expend a few pence. whenever she did so she drew the shop people's attention to connie, speaking of her as her charge, and a "dear, delicate young lydy," and begging of the people to be quick, as "'ot air" was so bad for the dear child; and invariably she refused to allow a parcel to be sent to portland mansions, saying that she preferred to carry it. at last, however, she seemed to think that connie had had sufficient exercise, and they went home from the corner of tottenham court road on the top of a 'bus. on their way connie turned innocently to her companion and said: "why ever did yer say as we lived in portland mansions?" but a sharp pinch on the girl's arm silenced her, and she felt more nervous and frightened than ever. the moment they got home, mrs. warren again returned to her bedroom, and came back neatly dressed in a black and yellow silk, with a keen appreciation of roast pork and apple sauce, which had been preparing in the oven all the morning. connie too was hungry. when the meal came to an end mrs. warren said: "more like a lydy you grows each minute. but, my dear, i must thank yer nivver to open yer mouth when you're out, for yer ain't got the accent. yer must niver do it until yer has acquired the rightful accent." "was that why yer pinched me so 'ard when i axed why yer spoke o' portland mansions?" asked connie. mrs. warren burst into a loud laugh. "course it were," she said. "don't yer nivver do nothing o' that sort agin." "but we don't live in portland mansions. why did yer say so?" asked connie. "ax no questions and yer'll be told no lies," was mrs. warren's response. she accompanied this apparently innocent speech with a look out of her fierce black eyes which caused poor connie's heart to sink into her shoes. after a minute mrs. warren said: "to-morrer's saturday; we'll go out a bit in the morning, and then we'll take train into the country. i promised yer a jaunt, and yer shall 'ave it. i'm thinking a lot o' yer, my dear, and 'ow i can best help such a beautiful young gel. yer accent must be 'tended to, and the best way to manage that is for you to have a refoined sort o' companion. ronald is that sort. we'll go and fetch 'im 'ome to-morrer." "whoever is ronald?" asked connie. "do tell me, please," she added in an interested voice, "for agnes spoke of him yesterday." "you wait till yer see," said mrs. warren. she nodded good-humoredly. the rest of the day passed very much like the day before. it was again intensely dull to poor connie. she had nothing whatever to do but to feed and sit still. again mrs. warren slept until tea-time. then agnes made her appearance, and mrs. warren went out in a tight-fitting coat, and with a leather bag in her hand. agnes made tea and scolded connie; and connie grumbled and cried, and begged and begged to be given back her liberty. mrs. warren returned a little later than the night before. agnes went away; mrs. warren drank whisky-and-water, and connie was sent to bed. oh, it was a miserable night! and would her own people ever find her? would sue be satisfied that connie was not quite lost? and would father john look for her? dear, kind, splendid father john! what would she not give to hear his magnificent voice as he preached to the people once again? would not her own father search heaven and earth to find his only child? he was so good to connie when he was not drunk--so proud of her, too, so glad when she kissed him so anxious to do the best he could for her! would he give her up for ever? "oh dear, dear!" thought the poor child, "if it was not for the woice i believe i'd go mad; but the woice--it holds me up. i'm 'appy enough w'en i 'ears it. oh, little giles, thank yer for telling me o' the wonnerful woice!" chapter ix. a trip into the country. saturday dawned a very bright and beautiful day. mrs. warren got up early, and connie also rose, feeling somehow or other that she was going to have a pleasanter time than she had yet enjoyed since her imprisonment. oh yes, she was quite certain now that she was imprisoned; but for what object it was impossible for her even to guess. mrs. warren bustled out quite an hour earlier than usual. she did not go far on this occasion. she seemed a little anxious, and once or twice, to connie's amazement, dodged down a back street as though she were afraid. her red face turned quite pale when she did this, and she clutched connie's arm and said in a faltering voice: "i'm tuk with a stitch in my side! oh, my poor, dear young lydy, i'm afeered as i won't be able to take yer for a long walk this blessed morning." but when connie, later on, inquired after the stitch, she was told to mind her own business, and she began to think that mrs. warren had pretended. they reached waterloo at quite an early hour, and there they took third-class tickets to a part of the country about thirty miles from london. it took them over an hour to get down, and during that time connie sat by the window wrapped in contemplation. for the first time she saw green grass and hills and running water, and although it was midwinter she saw trees which seemed to her too magnificent and glorious for words. her eyes shone with happiness, and she almost forgot mrs. warren's existence. at last they reached the little wayside station to which mrs. warren had taken tickets. they got out, and walked down a winding country lane. "is this real, real country?" asked connie. "yus--too real for me." "oh ma'am, it's bootiful! but i dunna see the flowers." "flowers don't grow in the winter, silly." "don't they? i thought for sure i'd see 'em a-blowin' and a-growin'. yer said so--yer mind." "well, so yer wull, come springtime, ef ye're a good gel. now, i want to talk wid yer wery serious-like." "oh ma'am, don't!" said poor connie. "none o' yer 'dont's' wid me! you ha' got to be very thankful to me for all i'm a-doin' for yer--feedin yer, and cockerin' yer up, and makin' a fuss o' yer, and brushing out yer 'air, and giving yer blue ties, and boots, and gloves." "oh ma'am, yes," said connie; "and i'm wery much obleeged--i am, truly--but i'd rayther a sight rayther, go 'ome to father; i would, ma'am." "wot little gels 'ud like isn't wot little gels 'ull get," said mrs. warren. "you come to me of yer own free will, and 'avin' come, yer'll stay. ef yer makes a fuss, or lets out to anybody that yer don't like it, i've a little room in my house--a room widdout no light and no winder, and so far away from any other room that yer might scream yerself sick and no one 'ud 'ear. into that room yer goes ef yer makes trouble. and now, listen." mrs. warren gripped connie's arm so tight that the poor child had to suppress a scream. "i know wot ye're been saying to agnes--a-grumblin' and a-grumblin' to agnes, instead o' down on yer knees and thankin' the almighty that yer've found mammy warren. i know all about it: yer'll stop that--d'yer 'ear--d'yer 'ear?" "yus, ma'am," said connie. "do yer, promise?" "yus, ma'am," said the poor child again. "i'll see as yer keeps it--yer little good-for-nothing beggar maid as i'm a-pamperin' of! don't i work for yer, and toil for yer? and am i to have naught but grumbles for my pains? yer won't like that room--an' it's there!" "i won't grumble," said connie, terrified, and not daring to do anything but propitiate her tyrant. mrs. warren's manner altered. "wull," she said, "i ha' brought yer down all this long way to 'ave a plain talk, and i guess we 'ave 'ad it. you please me, and i'll do my dooty by you; but don't please me, and there ain't a gel in the whole of lunnon'll be more misrubble than you. don't think as yer'll git aw'y, for yer won't--no, not a bit o' it. and now i've something else to say. there's a young boy as we're goin' to see to-day. 'is name is ronald; he's a special friend o' mine. i ha' had that boy a-wisiting o' me afore now, but he were took bad with a sort of fever. my word! din't i nurse him--the best o' good things didn't i give 'im! but his narves went wrong, and i sent him into the country for change of hair. he's all right now. he's a very purty boy, same as you're a purty gel, and i'm goin' to bring him back to be a companion for yer." "oh ma'am!" "yus," said mrs. warren. "yer'll like that, won't yer?" "oh yus, ma'am." "wull, now--we'll be calling at the cottage in a few minutes, and wot i want yer to do is to have a talk with that yer boy. ye're to tell him as i'm wonnerful good; ye're to tell him the sort o' things i does for yer. the poor boy--he got a notion in his head w'en he had the fever--that i--i--mammy warren--wor cruel to him. you tell him as there ain't a word o' truth in it, for a kinder or more motherly body never lived. ef yer don't tell him that, i'll soon find out; an' there's the room without winders an' without light real 'andy. now--do yer promise?" these words were accompanied by a violent shake. "do yer promise?" "yus, i promise," said connie, turning white. mrs. warren had an extraordinary capacity for changing her voice and manner, even the expression of her face. while she had been extracting two promises from poor connie, she looked like the most awful, wicked old woman that the worst parts of london could produce; but when on two points connie had faithfully promised to yield to her wishes, she immediately altered her tactics, and became as genial and affectionate and pleasant as she had been the reverse a few minutes back. "i believes yer," she said, "and you're a real nice child, and there won't be any one in the 'ole of lunnun 'appier than you as long as yer take the part of poor old mammy warren. now then, yere's the cottage, and soon we'll see the little man. he'll be a nice companion for yer, connie, and yer'll like that, won't you?" "oh yes, ma'am," said connie. she was not a london child for nothing. she had known a good deal of its ups and downs, although nothing quite so terrible as her present position had ever entered into her mind. but she saw clearly enough that the only chance of deliverance for her, and perhaps for the poor little boy, was to carry out mammy warren's injunctions and to keep her promise to the letter. accordingly, when mrs. warren's knock at the cottage door was answered by a kind-looking, pale-faced woman, connie raised her bright blue eyes to the woman's face and listened with deep interest when mrs. warren inquired how the poor little boy was. "is it ronald?" said the woman, whose name was mrs. cricket. "he's ever so much better; he's taken kindly to his food, and is out in the woods now at the back of the house playing all by himself." "in the woods is he, now?" said mrs. warren. "well, i ha' come to fetch him 'ome." "oh ma'am, i don't think he's as strong as all that." "i ha' come to fetch him 'ome by the wishes of his parients," said mrs. warren. "i suppose," she added, "there's no doubt in yer moind that i '_ave_ come from the parients of the boy?" "oh no, ma'am--none, o' course. will you come in, and i'll fetch him?" "is he quite right in the 'ead now?" said mrs. warren as she and connie followed mrs. cricket into the cottage. "he's better," said that good woman. "no talk o' dark rooms and nasty nightmares and cruel old women? all those things quite forgot?" asked mrs. warren. "he ain't spoke o' them lately." "well then, he's cured; he's quite fit to come 'ome. this young lydy is a r'lation o' hisn. i ha' brought her down to see 'im, and we'll all travel back to town together.--you might go and find him, my dear," said mrs. warren, turning to connie, and meanwhile putting her finger to her lips when mrs. cricket's back was turned in order to enjoin silence on the girl. "you run out into the woods, my purty, and find the dear little boy and bring him back here as fast as yer like." "yes, missy," said mrs. cricket, opening the back door of the cottage, "you run out, straight up that path, and you'll find little ronald." connie obeyed. she was glad to be alone in order to collect her thoughts. a wild idea of running away even now presented itself to her. but looking back, she perceived that mrs. warren had seated herself by the kitchen window and had her bold eyes fixed on her retreating little figure. no chance of running away. she must trust to luck, and for the present she must carry out mrs. warren's instructions. presently she came up to the object of her search--an exceedingly pretty, dark-haired boy of about ten years of age. his face was pale, his features regular, his eyes very large, brown, and soft, like rich brown velvet. he did not pay much attention to connie, but went on laying out a pile of horse-chestnuts which he had gathered in rows on the ground. "be your name ronald?" said connie, coming up to him. he looked at her, then sprang to his feet, and politely took off his little cap. "yes, my name is ronald harvey." "i ha' come to fetch yer," said connie. "what for?" asked the boy. "it's mammy warren," said connie in a low tone. "what?" asked the child. his face, always pale, now turned ghastly white. "she's such a nice woman," said connie. she sat down by ronald. "show me these purty balls," she said. "wot be they?" "chestnuts," said the boy. "did you ever see them before? that was not true what you said about--about----" "yus," said connie, "it is true. i'm a little gel stayin' with her now, and you--i want you to come back with me. she's real, real kind is mammy warren." the boy put his hand up to his forehead. "you seem a nice girl," he said, "and you look like--like a lady, only you don't talk the way ladies talk. i'm a gentleman. my father was an officer in the army, and my darling mother died, and--and something happened--i don't know what--but i was very, very, very ill. there was an awful time first, and there seemed to be a woman called mammy warren mixed up in the time and----" "oh, you had fever," said connie, "and you--you pictured things to yourself in the fever. but 'tain't true," she added earnestly. "i'm wid her, an' she's real, real, wonnerful kind." "you wouldn't tell a lie, would you, girl?" said the boy. connie bit her lip hard. "no," she said then in a choked voice. "i wonder if it's true," said the boy. "it seems to me it was much more than the fever, but i can't--i can't _quite_ remember." "she is very kind," echoed connie. "children, come along in," said a cheerful voice at that moment; and connie, raising her eyes, saw the sturdy form of mrs. warren advancing up the path to meet her. "she was terrible cruel in my time," said ronald, glancing at the same figure. "i don't want to go back." "oh, do--do come back, for my sake!" whispered connie. he turned and looked into the beautiful little face. "boys have to be good," he said then, "and--and brave. my father was a very brave man." then he struggled to his feet. "well, ronald," said mrs. warren, "and 'ow may yer be, my dear little boy? this is connie, a cousin o' yourn. wot playmates you two wull be! ye're both comin' back with me to my nice 'ome this wery arfternoon. and now mrs. cricket 'as got a meal for us all and then yer little things'll be packed, ronald, and i'll carry 'em--for in course yer nurse ought to carry yer clothes, my boy. we'll get off to the train as fast as ever we can arter we've had our meal. now, children, foller me back to the cottage." mrs. warren sailed on in front. connie and ronald followed after, hand in hand. there was quite a splendid color in connie's pale cheeks now, for all of a sudden she saw a reason for her present life. she had got to protect ronald, who was so much younger than herself. she would protect him with her very life if necessary. chapter x. the return to london. mrs. warren made a very hearty meal. she swallowed down cup after cup of strong coffee, and ate great hunches of thick bread-and-butter, and called out to the children not to shirk their food. but, try as they would, neither connie nor ronald had much appetite. connie, in spite of herself, could not help casting anxious glances at the little boy, and whenever she did so she found that mrs. warren had fixed her with her bold black eyes. it seemed to connie that mrs. warren's eyes said quite as plainly as though her lips had spoken: "i'll keep my word; there's the room with no winder and no light in it--yer'll find yerself in there ef yer don't look purty sharp." but notwithstanding the threatening expression of mrs. warren's eyes, connie could not restrain all sign of feeling. ronald, on the other hand, appeared quite bright. he devoted himself to connie, helping her in the most gentlemanly way to the good things which mrs. cricket had provided. "the apple jam is very nice," he said. "i watched mrs. cricket make it.--didn't i, mrs. cricket?" "that you did, my little love," said the good woman. "and i give you a little saucer of it all hot and tasty for your tea, didn't i, my little love?" "oh yes," replied ronald; "and didn't i like it, just!" "jam's wery bad for little boys," said mrs. warren at this juncture. "jam guvs little boys fever an' shockin' cruel dreams. it's bread-and-butter as little boys should heat, and sometimes bread without butter in case they should turn bilious." "oh no, ma'am, begging your pardon," here interrupted mrs. cricket; "i haven't found it so with dear little master ronald. you tell his parients, please, ma'am, that it's milk as he wants--lots and lots of country milk--and--and a chop now and then, and chicken if it's young and tender. that was 'ow i pulled 'im round.--wasn't it, ronald, my dear?" "yes," said ronald in his gentlemanly way. "you were very good indeed, mrs. cricket." "perhaps," interrupted mrs. warren, drawing herself up to her full height, which was by no means great, and pursing her lips, "yer'll 'ave the goodness, mrs. cricket, to put on a piece o' paper the exact diet yer like to horder for this yere boy. i'm a busy woman," said mrs. warren, "and i can't keep it in my 'ead. it's chuckens an' chops an' new-laid heggs--yer did say new-laid heggs at thruppence each didn't yer, mrs. cricket?--an' the richest an' best milk, mostly cream, i take it." "i said nothing about new-laid eggs," said mrs. cricket, who was exceedingly exact and orderly in her mind; "but now, as you 'ave mentioned them, they'd come in very 'andy. but i certain did speak of the other things, and i'll write 'em down ef yer like." "do," said mrs. warren, "and i'll mention 'em to the child's parients w'en i see 'em." but at this juncture something startling happened, for ronald, white as a sheet, rose. "has my father come back?" he asked. "have you heard from him? are you taking me to him?" mrs. warren gazed full at ronald, and, quick as thought, she adopted his idea. here would be a way--a delightful way--of getting the boy back to her dreadful house. "now, ain't i good?" she said. "don't i know wot a dear little boy wants? yus, my love, ye're soon to be in the harms of yer dear parient." "but you said both parients," interrupted mrs. cricket. mrs. warren put up her finger to her lips. she had got the boy in her arms, and he found himself most unwillingly folded to her ample breast. "ain't one enough at a time?" was her most dubious remark. "and now then, ronald, hurry up with yer things, for connie and me, we must be hoff. we could leave yer behind, ef yer so wished it, but lunnun 'ud be a much more convenient place for yer to meet yer father." "oh i'll go, i'll go!" said ronald. "my darling, darling father! oh, i did think i'd never see him again! and he's quite well, mrs. warren?" "in splendid, splendid health," said mrs. warren. "niver did i lay eyes on so 'andsome a man." "and i'll see him to-night?" said ronald. "yus--ef ye're quick." then ronald darted into the next room, and mrs. cricket followed him, and connie and mrs. warren faced each other. mrs. warren began to laugh immoderately. "young and tender chuckens," she said, "an' chops an' new-laid heggs an' milk. wotever's the matter with yer, connie?" connie answered timidly that she though ronald a dear little boy, and very pretty, and that she hoped that he would soon get strong with the nourishing food that mrs. warren was going to give him. but here that worthy woman winked in so mysterious and awful a manner that poor connie felt as though she had received an electric shock. after a time she spoke again. "i'm so glad about his father!" she said. "his father was a hofficer in the harmy. will he really see him to-night, mrs. warren?" "will the sky fall?" was mrs. warren's ambiguous answer. "once for all, connie, you ax no questions an' you'll be told no lies." a very few moments afterwards ronald came out of the little bedroom, prepared for his journey. mrs. cricket cried when she parted with him, but there were no tears in the boy's lovely eyes--he was all smiles and excitement. "i'll bring my own, own father down to see you, mrs. cricket," he said; "maybe not to-morrow, but some day next week. for you've been very good to me, darling mrs. cricket." then mrs. cricket kissed him and cried over him again, and the scene might have been prolonged if mrs. warren had not caught the boy roughly by the shoulder and pulled him away. as they were marching down the tiny path which led from the cottage to the high-road, mrs. cricket did venture to say in an anxious voice: "i s'pose as major harvey'll pay me the little money as i spended on the dear child?" "that he will," said mrs. warren. "i'll see him to-night, most like, and i'll be sure to mention the chuckens and the chops." "well then, good-bye again, darling," said mrs. cricket. ronald blew a kiss to her, and then, taking connie's hand, they marched down the high-road in the direction of the railway station, mrs. warren trotting by their side, carrying the small bundle which contained ronald's clothes all tied up neatly in a blue check handkerchief. "yer'll be sure to tell yer father wot a good nurse i were to you, ronald," she remarked as they found themselves alone in a third-class carriage. "you're quite sure it _was_ only a dream?" said ronald then very earnestly. "wot do yer mean by that, chile?" inquired mrs. warren. "i mean the dark room without any light, and the dreadful person who--who--flogged me, and--the hunger." "poor little kid!" said mrs. warren. "didn't he 'ave the fever, and didn't mammy warren hold him in her arms, an', big boy that he be, walked up and down the room wid him, and tried to soothe him w'en he said them nasty lies? it wor a dream, my dear. w'y, connie here can tell yer 'ow good i am to 'er." "wery good," said connie--"so good that there niver were no one better." she tumbled out the words in desperation, and mammy warren gave her a radiant smile, and poked her playfully in the ribs, and said that she was quite the funniest gel she had ever come acrost. after this connie was quite silent until the little party found themselves at waterloo. here they mounted to the top of a 'bus, and ronald, trembling with delight, clutched hold of connie's hand. "stoop down," he said; "i want to whisper." connie bent towards him. "do you think my father will be waiting for me when we get back to mrs. warren's?" "i don't know," was the only reply poor connie could manage to give him. at last the omnibus drive came to an end, and the trio walked the short remaining distance to mrs. warren's rooms. ronald almost tumbled upstairs in his eagerness to get there first. "oh, how will he get in? i do hope he's not been waiting and gone away again." mrs. warren opened the door with her latch key. the room was dark, for there was neither fire-light nor gas-light; but soon these deficiencies were supplied, for mrs. warren was exceedingly fond of creature comforts. "i wonder when he'll come," said ronald. he was standing by the table and looking anxiously with his big brown eyes all round him. "i do wonder when he'll come." mrs. warren made no reply. she began to prepare supper. as she did so there came a knock at the door. mrs. warren went to open it. she had an eager conversation with some one who stood without, and then she and agnes entered the room together. ronald evidently knew agnes, for he shrank away from her and regarded her arrival with the reverse of pleasure. "wull--and 'ow yer?" said agnes in a cheerful tone. she chucked ronald under the chin and remarked on his healthy appearance. "wull," said mrs. warren, "yer can't blame the pore child for that, seein' as he 'ave been cockered up on the best food in the land--chuckens and chops, no less." "oh, dear me! how shockin' greedy you must be!" said agnes. "i'm sure, ma'am," she continued, turning to mrs. warren, "no one could desire better than wot _you_ 'as to eat." "i like my own food," said mrs. warren, "although it be simplicity itself. there are two red 'errin's for supper to-night, and bread-and-butter and tea, and a _little_ raspberry jam, and ef that ain't enough for anybody's palate, i don't know----" "my father, when he comes"--began ronald, but here mrs. warren turned to him. "you're a manly boy, ronald," she said, "and i know you'll tike wot i 'ave to say in a manly sperrit. yer father have been called out o' lunnon, and won't be back for a day or two. he sent a message by agnes 'ere. he don't know the exact day as he'll be back, but he'll come wery soon." "yes," said agnes, "i seen him." "where?" asked ronald. "in the street," said agnes. "he come along 'ere an hour back. ef you'd been 'ome he might ha' took yer back with him; but w'en he found that you was still in the country he wor that pleased 'is whole face seemed to smile, and he said--said 'e, 'dear mammy warren--i'd like to chuck her under her chin.' them was his wery words." "i don't believe my father would say that sort of thing," answered ronald. "oh my!" said agnes. "highty-tighty! don't yer go an' say as i tells lies, young man----" "an' it's the wery thing he would say," interrupted mrs. warren, "for a plainer-spoken, more hagreeable man than the major niver drew breath." "he left yer a message," continued agnes, "an' yer can tike it or leave it--i don't care. wot he said wor this. you're to obey mammy warren, an' be wery grateful to her, an' do jest wot she tells yer until he comes 'ome. he'll be 'ome any day, an' he'll come an' fetch yer then, and the more good yer be to mammy warren the better pleased he'll be." ronald sat down on a little stool. he had sat on that stool before. he looked with dim eyes across the over-furnished, hot, and terribly ugly room. that vision of delight which had buoyed him up all the way back to london was not to be realized for a few days. he must bear with mrs. warren for a few days. it did not enter into his head that the whole story about his father was false from beginning to end. the present disappointment was quite enough for so young a child to bear. after this mrs. warren and agnes conversed in semi-whispers, and presently they retired into mrs warren's bedroom, and connie and ronald were alone. "i am glad yer've come 'ere, ronald," said connie. "yes," said ronald. he pressed his little white hand against his forehead. "you're missing your father, i know," continued connie, "somehow i'm a-missing o' mine." "have you a father, connie?" asked the little boy. "yus--that i 'ave," said connie. "not a great, grand gentleman like yourn, but a father for all that." "is your father in london?" asked the boy. "oh yes," answered connie, "and not far from 'ere, nayther." "then why aren't you with him?" asked ronald. "'cos i can't be," replied connie in a low whisper. "hush!" said ronald. just then the door opened and agnes came out. mrs. warren followed her. mrs. warren wore her usual tight-fitting jacket, but on this occasion agnes carried a leather bag, which seemed to be stuffed so full that it was with difficulty it could be kept shut. mrs. warren addressed the two children. "i'm goin' to lock you two in," she said, "an' you'd best go to bed. there's a little bed made up in your room, connie, for ronald to sleep in; and as you're a deal older than that sweet little boy, you'll nurse him off to sleep, jest as though he wor your real brother. arter he's asleep you can go to bed yerself, for there's nothing like early hours for beauty sleep. you yere me, connie? you know wot to do?" "yus," answered connie. her voice was almost cheerful. she was so truly glad that mrs. warren was going out. when she heard the key turning in the lock, and knew that she and ronald were locked in all alone, she scarcely seemed to mind, so glad was she of ronald's company. neither child spoke to the other until the retreating footsteps of mrs. warren and agnes ceased to sound on the stairs. then connie went up to ronald, and kneeling down by him put her arms round him and kissed him. "you're very pretty," said the little boy, "although you don't talk like a lady. but that doesn't matter," he added, "for you've got a lady's heart." "i love you, ronald," was connie's answer. ronald now put his own arms round connie's neck and kissed her once or twice on her peach-like cheek, and then they both sat down on the floor and were happy for a few minutes in each other's company. after that ronald began to speak. he told connie about his father and about his mother. he did not cry at all, as most children would have done, when he spoke of those he loved so dearly. "mother's dead nearly a year now," he said. "it was waiting for father that killed her. father went out to a dreadful war in south africa, and we heard that he was killed. mother wouldn't believe it; she never did believe it--never--and she taught me not to, and i never did. but, all the same, it killed her." "and then wot became of you?" asked connie. "i was taken here," replied ronald. "that's three or four months ago now. i remember quite well being out walking with my nurse. she wasn't very nice, my nurse wasn't; but she was--oh, so good and kind compared to--what--what happened afterwards! darling mother was dead. they had put her body in the grave, and the angels had got her soul. i didn't like to think of the grave, but i did love to remember the angels. the last thing mother said when she was dying was, 'ronald, when your father comes back, be sure you tell him that i never believed that he was really dead.'" "i promised her, and then she said again, 'and you'll never believe it either, ronald.' and i said that i never, never would, if it was a thousand years. and then she kissed me and smiled; and i s'pose the angels took her, for she never spoke any more." "well," said connie, who did not want ronald to dwell too long on this very sad scene, "tell us 'bout the day you come 'ere." "mother was in her grave," said ronald, "and there was no one who thought very much about me; and my nurse--she was not half as kind as when mother lived. one day she took me for a walk. we went a long, long way, and presently she asked me to wait for her outside one of those awful gin-palaces. she used to go in there sometimes, even when mother was alive. well, i waited and waited outside, but she never came out. i was not a bit frightened at first, of course, for my father's boy mustn't be a coward, must he, connie?" "no," answered connie. "but she didn't come out, and it got late, and people began to look at me, and by-and-by mammy warren came out of the gin-palace. she was--oh, so red in the face! and i thought i'd never seen so dreadfully stout a woman. she put her hand on my shoulder and said, 'wotever are you doing here?' and i said, 'i'm waiting for my nurse, hannah waters.' and she said, 'oh, then, _you're_ the little boy!' and i stared at her, and she said, 'pooh hannah's took bad, and she's asked me to take you home. come along at once, my dear.' "i went with her. i wasn't a bit frightened--i had never been frightened in all my life up to then. but she didn't take me home at all. she brought me to this house. she was very kind to me at first, in a sort of a way, and she told me that my relations had given me to her to look after, and that i was to be her little boy for the present, and must do just what she wanted." "well--and wot did she want?" asked connie, trembling not a little. "it wasn't so dreadful bad at first," continued ronald. "she used to take me out every day for long walks, and she made me look very nice; and we went into shops, for she said she wanted to buy things, but i don't think she ever did buy much. i used to be tired sometimes; we walked such a very long way." "and did she ever make you go a little, tiny bit in front of her?" said connie. "why, yes," replied ronald. "but i rather liked that, for, you see, i'm a gentleman, and she's not a lady." "i wonder," said connie, "ef she spoke of herself as your old nurse." ronald began to laugh. "how clever of you to think of that, connie! she always did; and whenever she did buy things she said they were for me; and she used to give--oh, tremendous grand addresses of where i lived." "portland mansions, p'r'aps?" said connie. "sometimes that, and sometimes other places; but of course the parcels were never sent there; she always carried them herself." "and she wore a big, big cloak, with pockets inside?" asked connie. "yes, she did--she did." "she does just the same with me now," said connie. "i go out with her every day, and we go into the big shops--into the most crowded parts--and she doesn't buy much. i like that the best part of the day, for all the rest of the time i have to stay here and do nothing." "and so had i to stay in these rooms and do nothing," said ronald. "but i won't have to stay long now," he continued, "as my dear, dear father has come home. oh! i wish darling mother were alive, that she might feel as happy as i do to-night." "but tell me, ronald," continued connie, "how was it yer got the fever?" "i don't quite remember that part," said the little boy. "all that part was made up of dreams. there was a dreadful dream when i seemed to be quite well, and when i said something before some one, and mammy warren turned scarlet; and when i was alone she--she flogged me and put me into a dark, dark room for--oh! it seemed like--for ever. and i had nothing to eat, and i was so frightened--for she said there was a bogy there--that i nearly died. i didn't like to be frightened, for it seemed as though i couldn't be father's own son if i were afraid. but i was afraid, connie--i was. i'll have to tell darling father about it when i see him; i'm sure he'll forgive me, more particular when he knows the whole thing was only a fever dream--for there's not any room in this house like that, is there, connie." "yes, but there be," thought connie. but she did not say so aloud. that night ronald slept as peacefully as though he were really back again with his father. but connie lay awake. anxious as she had been before ronald's arrival, that state of things was nothing at all to her present anxiety. the next day was sunday, and if it had not been for big ben the two poor children would have had a most miserable time, for they were shut up in mrs. warren's room from morning till night. in vain they begged to be allowed to go out. mrs. warren said "no," and in so emphatic a manner that they did not dare to ask her twice. agnes did not come at all to the house on sunday, and connie and ronald finally curled themselves up in the deep window-ledge, and connie talked and told ronald all about her past life. in particular she told him about big ben, and little giles, and the wonderful, most wonderful "woice." after that the children had a sort of play together, in which ronald proved himself to be a most imaginative little person, for he invented many fresh stories with regard to big ben, assuring connie that he was much more than a voice. he would not be at all surprised, he said if big ben was not a great angel who came straight down from heaven every hour to comfort the sorrowful people in westminster. ronald thought it extremely likely that this wonderful angel knew his own mother, and was on this special sunday telling him to be a brave boy and keep up his heart, for most certainly he would be safe back with his father before another sunday came. "that's what he says," continued ronald, "and that's what'll happen, you'll see, connie. and when darling father comes here you shall come away too, for i won't leave you alone with mammy warren. she's not a real kind person, is she, connie?" "don't ax me," said connie. ronald looked up into her face. "you can't tell a lie at all well," he said. "you're trying to make me think that mammy warren's nice, but you're not doing it well, for i don't believe you." then the big clock once again tolled the hour, and ronald laughed with glee. "there's no doubt about it now," he said. "father _is_ coming, and very, very soon. oh i am glad, and happy!" during that sunday the children had very little food, for mrs. warren seemed all of a sudden to have changed her tactics. whether it was the fact that she was really angry at mrs. cricket's having fed the boy on chicken and mutton-chops, no one could tell; but all he did have on that eventful sunday was weak tea, stale bread and butter, and a very little jam. towards evening the two poor little creatures were really hungry. by-and-by they clasped each other round the neck, and fell asleep in each other's arms. it was in this condition--curled up near the fire--that mrs. warren found them when she got home. chapter xi. a new departure. with monday morning, however, all things seemed to have altered. mrs. warren was up spry and early. she called connie to come and help her, but she desired ronald to lie in bed. "it's a nasty day," she said; "there's sleet falling. we'll go out, of course, for fresh air is good for children, but we must none of us wear our best clothes." "what do yer mean by that?" said connie. "don't you go and ax me wot i mean; just do wot i tells yer. no dark-blue dress for yer to-day, missy. i ha' got a old gownd as 'ull fit yer fine." poor connie trembled. mrs. warren went into her bedroom. "'ere, now," she said, "you put it on." the old gown was certainly not at all nice. its color was quite indescribable. it was very ragged and torn, too, round the bottom of the skirt. it dragged down in front so as almost to trip poor connie when she tried to walk, and was several inches too short in the back. mrs. warren desired connie to take off her dainty shoes and stockings, and gave her some stockings with holes in them, and some very disreputable shoes down at the heel. she made her pin across her chest a little old shawl of an ugly pale pattern, and instead of allowing her to wear her hair in a golden fleece down her back, she plaited it, and tied it into a little bunch at the back of her head. she then put an old bonnet on the child's head--a bonnet which must have once belonged to quite an elderly woman--and tied it with strings in front. connie felt terribly ashamed of herself. "i'm all in rags," she said, "jest as though i wor a beggar maid." "i've a fancy that yer shall wear these 'ere clothes to-day," said mrs. warren. "yer've been a fine lydy too long; yer'll be a beggar maid to-day. w'en i tell yer wot to do in the street, yer'll do it. you can sing, i take it. now then, you learn the words." mrs. warren planted down before connie the well-known words of "home, sweet home." "i know this without learning it," said the girl. "an' you 'as a good woice, i take it." "middlin'," replied connie. "wull, sing it for me now." connie struck up the familiar words, and so frightened was she that in real desperation she acquitted herself fairly well. "you'll take a treble, an' the little boy 'ull do likewise, and i'll take a fine, deep second. ah! _i_ know 'ow to sing," said mrs. warren. "you won't take little ronald out on a dreadful sort o' day like this," said connie. "wen i want yer adwice i'll ax fur it," said mrs. warren, with most withering sarcasm. poor connie felt her heart suddenly fit to burst. what new and dreadful departure was this? mrs. warren now brought ronald into the front room, and there she arrayed him in garments of the poorest type, allowing his little thin legs to be quite bare, and his very thin arms to show through his ragged jacket. she posed, however, a little red cap on the midst of his curly dark hair; and this cap most wonderfully became the child, so that few people could pass him in the street without noticing the sweetness of his angelic face. then mrs. warren prepared herself for the part she was to take. she went into her bedroom for the purpose, and returned looking so exactly like a stout old beggar woman that the children would scarcely have known her. she had covered her left eye with a patch, and now only looked out on the world with her right one. her hair was knotted untidily under a frowsy old bonnet, and a very thin shawl was bound across her ample breast. "we'll do fine, i take it," she said to the children. "i am your mother, my dears; you'll both 'old me by the 'and. purtier little lambs couldn't be seen than the two of yez. and ef poor, ugly mammy warren 'ave made herself still uglier for yer sweet sakes, 'oo can but love 'er for the ennoblin' deed? wull, come along now, children; but first i'll build up the fire, for we'll be 'ungry arter this 'ere job." the fire was built up to mrs. warren's satisfaction, and the three went downstairs. ronald was quite speechless with shame--to go out like this, to disgrace his brave father and his darling mother in this sort of fashion, was pure torture to the boy; but connie, in the thought of him and the fear that he would take cold, almost forgot her own misery. the three did not go anywhere by 'bus that day, but hurried down side alleys and back streets until they got into the region of piccadilly. the children had not the least idea where they were. suddenly, however, they came to a pause outside a large hotel, and there mrs. warren struck up the first note of "home, sweet home." she had timed everything well. the policeman was at the other end of his beat, and she would not be molested for quite ten minutes. the quavering, ugly notes of the old woman were well subdued, and connie had a really fine voice, and it rose high on the bitter air in sweet, childish appeal and confidence. ronald, too, was struck with a sudden thought. that hotel was a sort of place where father used to live when he was alive. who could tell if his father himself might not have returned, and might not be there, and might not hear him if he sang loud enough and sweet enough? the voice of the boy and the voice of the girl blended together, and mrs. warren skilfully dropped hers so as not to spoil the harmony. the people in the hotel were attracted by the sweet notes, and crowded to the windows. then connie's face of purest beauty--connie's face rendered all the more pathetic by the old bonnet and the dreadful, tattered dress--and ronald with his head thrown back, his red cap held in his hand, the white snow falling in flakes on his rich dark hair, made between them a picture which would melt the hardest heart. sixpences and even shillings were showered from the windows, and as the last note of "home, sweet home" died away mrs. warren pocketed quite a considerable harvest. she and the children then moved on and did likewise before several other large buildings, but they were not so successful again as they had been with their first attempt. the police came back sooner than they were expected. ronald began to cough, too, and connie's face looked blue with cold. mrs. warren, however, was not disappointed. she spoke encouragingly and protectingly to the children. "come 'ome, loveys," she said; "come 'ome, my little dears." they did get home--or, rather, they got back to the dreadful house where they were imprisoned--late in the afternoon, ronald almost speechless with cold and fatigue, connie trembling also, and aching in every limb. but now unwonted comforts awaited them. mrs. warren had no idea of killing off these sources of wealth. she put ronald into a hot bath, and rubbed his limbs until they glowed, and then moved his little bed in front of the fire and got him into it. connie was also rubbed and dried and desired to dispense with her beggar's toilet. afterwards there was quite a good dinner of roast pork with crackling and apple sauce, and dreadful as their position was, both the poor children enjoyed this meal as they had never enjoyed food before. thus a few days went by, the children going out every morning with mrs. warren sometimes as beggar children, but sometimes again as children of the well-to-do. these two programmes formed the most interesting part of their little lives. for the rest of the day they sat huddled up together, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, while each day a bigger and bigger ache came into ronald's heart. why, oh why did not his father come to fetch him? but as all things come to an end, so the children's life in mrs. warren's dreadful attics came to an abrupt conclusion. one day, just as they were dressed to go out, there came a hurried knock at the door. it seemed to connie, who was very sharp and observant, that mrs. warren did not much like the sound. she went to the door and, before opening it, called out, "who's there?" "agnes," was the reply; whereupon mrs. warren opened the door a few inches, and agnes squeezed in, immediately locking the door behind her. she whispered something into mrs. warren's ear, which caused that good woman to turn deadly white and stagger against the wall. "yer've no time to faint, ma'am," said agnes. "'ere--let me slap yer on the back." she gave two resounding whacks on mrs. warren's stout back, which caused that woman to heave a couple of profound sighs and then to recover her presence of mind. she and agnes then retired into her bedroom, where drawers were hastily opened, and much commotion was heard by the two prettily dressed and waiting children. in another minute or two agnes came out alone. "wull," she said, "and 'ow be you, connie?" "i am all right," said connie. "where's mammy warren?" "she's tuk bad, and won't want yer to go out a-walkin' with her to-day. oh my! oh my! how spry we be! it 'minds me o' the old song, 'as willikins were a-walkin' wid his dinah one day.'" "agnes," said connie, "i'm certain sure as there's some'ut wrong." "be yer now?" said agnes. "wull then, ye're mistook. wot could be wrong? ye're a very queer and suspicious gel, connie harris--the most suspicious as i hever see'd. ye're just for all the world the most selfish gel as could be found in the whole o' lunnun. pore mammy warren was told of the sudden death of her sister, and that's all the sympathy you guvs her. wery different she behaves to you and ronald. 'hagnes,' says she, 'tike those pore children for a run,' says she, 'and bring them 'ome safe in time for dinner,' says she, 'an' give 'em some roast mutton for dinner, poor darlin's,' says mammy warren; and then she falls to cryin', and 'oh, my sister!' she says, and 'oh, poor georgina!' she sobs. now then, the pair of yer--out we goes, and i'll go wid yer." quick as thought agnes accomplished her purpose, and the two prettily dressed children--connie with her hair down her back, ronald looking like a little prince--found themselves in the street. but if the two children thought that they had the slightest chance of running away they were terribly mistaken, for agnes proved even a sharper taskmistress than mrs. warren. she seemed to connie to have suddenly got quite old and very cruel and determined. she walked the children here, and she walked them there. they peered into shop windows and got into crowds, but they did no shopping that morning. connie was rather glad of that, and now she was so accustomed to being stared at that she hardly took any notice; while as to ronald, his sweet brown eyes looked full up into the face of every gentleman who passed, in the faint hope of discovering his father again. it seemed to connie that they were out longer than usual; but at last they did come back. then, to their great surprise, they found the door of mammy warren's sitting-room wide opened. "my word! 'ow can this 'ave 'appened?" said agnes. they all went in, and agnes went straight to the bedroom. she came out presently, wearing a very grave face, and told the children that she greatly feared poor mammy warren had gone off her head with grief--that there wasn't a sign of her in the bedroom, nor anywhere in the house. "and she's took her things, too," said agnes. "wull, now--wull, i must go and search for her. yer dinner's in the oven, children, and i'll come back to see 'ow yer be sometime to-night, p'rhaps." "wull mammy warren come back to-night?" asked connie. "i don't know--maybe the poor soul is in the river by now. she wor took wery bad, thinkin' of her sister, georgina. i'll lock yer in, of course, children, and yer can eat yer dinner and think o' yer mercies." chapter xii. left alone. when agnes went out the two children stared at each other. "connie," said ronald, "i wish you'd tell me the real, real truth." but connie was trembling very much. "don't yer ax me," she said. she suddenly burst into tears. "i am so dreadfully frightened," she cried. "i don't think i ever wor so frightened in all my life before. you're not half so frightened as i am, ronald." "of course not," said ronald, "for i am a boy, you see, and i'll be a man by-and-by. besides, i have to think of father--father would have gone through anything. once he was in a shipwreck. the ship was really wrecked, and a great many of the passengers were drowned. father told me all about it, but it was from a friend of father's that i learned afterwards how splendid he was, saving--oh, heaps of people! it was that night," continued ronald, sitting down by the fire as he spoke, his eyes glowing with a great thought, and his little face all lit up by the fire-light--"it was that night that he first found out how much he loved mother; for mother was in a great big atlantic liner, and it was father who saved her life. afterwards they were married to each other, and afterwards i came to them--god sent me, you know." "yus," said connie. she dried her eyes. "go on talking, ronald," she said. "i never met a boy like you. i thought there were no one like giles, but it seems to me some'ow that you're a bit better--you're so wonnerful, wonnerful brave, and 'ave such a cunnin' way of talkin'. i s'pose that's 'cos you--you're a little gen'leman, ronald." ronald made no answer to this. after a minute he said: "there's no thanks to me to be brave--that is, when i'm brave it's all on account of father, and 'like father, like son.' mother used to teach me that proverb when i was very small. shall i tell you other things that father did?" "oh yus, please," said connie. "he saved some people once in a great big fire. no one else had courage to go in, but he wasn't afraid of anything. and another time he saved a man on the field of battle. he got his v. c. for that." "wotever's a v. c.?" inquired connie. "oh," said ronald, "don't you even know that? how very ignorant you are, dear connie. a v. c.--why, it's better to be a victoria cross man than to be the greatest noble in the land. even the king couldn't be more than a victoria cross man." "still, i don't understand," said connie. "it's an honor," said ronald, "that's given for a very, very brave deed. father had it; when he comes back he'll show you his victoria cross; then you'll know." "do yer think as he'll come soon?" asked connie. "he may come to-day," said ronald--"or he may not," he added, with a profound sigh. the little boy had been talking with great excitement, but now the color faded from his cheeks and he coughed a little. he had coughed more or less since that dreadful day when mrs. warren had taken him out in the snowstorm. he was always rather a delicate child, and after his bad fever he was not fit to encounter such misery and hardship. "connie," he said after a time, "it's the worst of all dreadful things, isn't it, to pretend that you are what you aren't?" "what do yer mean by that?" asked connie. "well, it's this way. you praise me for being brave. i am not brave always; i am very frightened sometimes. i am very terribly frightened now, dear connie." "oh ronald!" said connie, "if you're frightened hall's hup." "let me tell you," said ronald. he laid his little, thin hand on the girl's arm. "it's about father. do you think, connie, that mammy warren could have invented that story about him?" "i dunno," said connie. "but what do you think, connie? tell me just what you think." "tell me what you think, ronald." "i am afraid to think," said the child. "at first i believed it, just as though father had spoken himself to me. i thought for sure and certain he'd be waiting for me here. i didn't think for a single moment that he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the landing and go away again just because i wasn't here. for, you see, i am his own little boy; i am all he has got. i know father so well, i don't believe he could do that kind of thing." "oh, but you can't say," answered connie. "certain sure, it seemed as though agnes spoke the truth." "i thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd never, never chuck mrs. warren under the chin." "agnes might have invented that part," said poor connie. but in her heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of ronald's father coming to fetch him. "she might," said ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to go to the country--perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. he is the sort who are always doing that. that's quite, quite likely, for it would be in keeping with father's way. and he'd like me, of course, to be unselfish, and never to make a fuss--he hated boys who made a fuss. oh yes, i did believe it; and on saturday night and on sunday, when big ben talked to us, it seemed that it was mother telling me that father would soon be with me. but a whole week has gone and he hasn't come. why, it's saturday night again, connie. i've been back again in this house for a whole week now, and father has never, never come." "maybe he'll come to-night," said connie. "i don't think so; somehow i'd sort of feel it in my bones if he was coming back." "what do yer mean by that?" said connie. "oh, i'd be springy-like and jumpy about. but i'm not. i feel--oh, so lazy and so--so tired! and a little bit--yes, a greatbit--frightened--terribly frightened." "you must cheer up, ronald," said connie. then she added, "i wish we could get out o' this. i wish i could pick the lock and get aw'y." "oh, i wish you could, connie," said the child. "couldn't you try?" "i'm a'most afeered to go into mammy warren's room," said connie; "for ef she did come back and see me any time, she'd punish me awful; but p'r'aps i might find tools for picking the lock in her room." "oh, do let's try!" said ronald. connie half-rose, then sat down again. "it's me that's the coward now," she said. "oh, how so, connie?" "'cos," said connie, "there's that dark room with no winder--'tain't a dream, ronald." "i thought it wasn't," said ronald, turning white. "no--it's there," said connie, "and i'm afeered o' it." ronald sat very still for a minute then. he was thinking hard. he was only a little boy of ten years old, but he was a very plucky one. he looked at connie, who although a little older than he, was very slight and small for her age. "connie," he said, "if you and i are ever to make our escape we must not be frightened. even the dark closet won't frighten me now. _i_ am going into mrs. warren's room." "oh ronald! are you? dare you?" "yes, i dare. father did worse things than that--why should i be afraid?" "you'd win the v. c., ronald, wouldn't you, now?" ronald smiled. "not for such a little, little thing. but perhaps some day," he said; and his eyes looked very bright. "connie, if we can unpick the lock and get the door open, where shall we go?" "we'll go," said connie in a brisk voice, "back to father john as fast as ever we can." "father john," said ronald--"who is he?" "i told you, ronnie--i told you about him." "i forgot for a minute," said ronald. "you mean the street preacher." "yus," said connie. "'e'll save us. there's no fear o' mammy warren getting to us ever again ef he takes us in 'and." ronald smiled. "the only thing i'm afraid of is this," he said--"that if it's true about father, he may come here and find me gone." "let's leave a note for him," said connie then. "let's put it on the table. if mammy warren should come back she'll find the note, but that won't do any harm, for she knows father john, and she's awful afeered of him, 'cos she said as much, so she'd never follow us there." "the very thing!" said ronald. "let's get some paper. will you write the note, connie?" the children poked round in the sitting-room, and found a sheet of very thin paper, and an old pen, and a penny bottle of ink. ronald dictated, and connie wrote: "dear father,--i've waited here for a week. i am trying to be very brave. connie's an awful nice girl. we've picked the lock here, father, and we've gone to father john, in adam street. please come quick, for your little boy is so very hungry for you. come quick, darling father.--your little waiting boy, ronald." "that'll bring him," said ronald. "we'll put it on the table." connie had written her letter badly, and there were several blots; but still a feat was accomplished. her cheeks were bright with excitement now. "what shall i put outside?" she asked--"on the envelope, i mean." ronald thought for a minute; then he said in a slow and impressive voice: "to major harvey, v. c., from ronald." "nobody can mistake who it's meant for," said ronald. "here's a bit of sealing-wax," said connie. "let's seal it." they did so, connie stamping the seal with a penny thimble which she took out of her pocket. "and now," said ronald, pulling himself up, "all is ready, and i am going into mammy warren's room to try and find tools for picking the lock." "i'm a-goin' with yer," said connie. "oh connie, that is brave of you." "no," said connie, "it 'ud be real cowardly to let yer go alone." hand in hand the two children crossed the ugly sitting-room, and opened the door which led into that mysterious apartment known as mammy warren's room. it certainly was a very strange-looking place. there was no bed to be seen anywhere, which in itself was surprising. but connie explained to ronald that the huge wooden wardrobe was doubtless a press-bed which let down at night. "she'd keep all kinds of things at the back of the bed," said the practical connie, who had seen several similar arrangements in the houses of the poor. this room, however, although ugly and dark--very dark--seemed to be suspiciously bare. the children had turned on the gas--for evening had already arrived--and they could see with great distinctness. mammy warren owned the upper part of this tenement-house, and no one ever came up the creaking stairs except to visit her. the children therefore knew that if there was a footstep they would be in danger. connie, however, assured ronald that she could put out the light and be innocently seated by the fire if mammy warren did arrive unexpectedly. all was silence, however, on the creaking stairs, and they were able to resume their search. the chest of drawers stood with all its drawers open and each one of them empty. no sort of tool could the children find. the yellow and black silk dress had disappeared, but the disreputable old beggar's clothes hung on the peg behind the door. there was also a very ancient bonnet, which was hung by its strings over the dress. otherwise there was not a scrap of anything whatever in the room except the press bedstead, which the children could not possibly open, and the empty chest of drawers. "but here," said connie, "is a door. p'rhaps it's a cupboard door." "let's try if it will open," said ronald. he turned the handle. the door shot back with a spring, and the boy's face turned pale. "the dark closet!" said connie. "the dark, dark room without a winder!" ronald caught hold of connie's hand and squeezed it tightly. after a minute he said in a husky voice: "come away." connie shut the mysterious closet door. the children turned out the gas in mammy warren's bedroom, and went back to the sitting-room. here they crouched down, pale and trembling, before the fire. "don't, ronnie--don't," said connie. "hold me very tight, connie," said the little boy. she did so, pressing him to her heart and kissing his little face. after a minute tears came to his eyes, and he said in a sturdy tone: "now i am better. it was wrong of me to be so frightened." "hark--there's the woice!" said connie. they sat very still while big ben proclaimed the hour of nine. "what does he say?" asked ronald, turning round and looking at connie. "i know," said connie, a light on her pretty face. "father john preached on it once. i know wot big ben's a-sayin' of to-night." "tell me," said ronald. "_he that shall endure_," said connie. "yes, connie," repeated ronald--"'he that shall endure'----" "_to the end_," said connie, "_shall be saved_," she added. "oh connie!" cried the boy. "do you really, really think so?" "father john says it, and father john couldn't tell a lie," continued the girl. "he says that is one of god's promises, and god never made a mistake. 'he that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'" "then," said ronald, "if _we_ endure _we_ shall be saved." "yes," replied connie. "you're not frightened, then?" "not after that," said connie. "how can you tell that _was_ what big ben said?" "'eard him," said connie. she unclasped ronald's arms from her neck and stood up. "i'm better," she said; "i'm not frightened no more. sometimes it's 'ard to endure--father john says it is. but ''e that _shall_ endure to the end'--to the _end_--he made a great p'int o' that--'shall be saved.'" "then _we'll_ be saved," said ronald. "yus," answered connie. she looked down at the little boy. the boy was gazing into the fire and smiling. connie put on some fresh lumps of coal, and the fire broke into a cheerful blaze. it did not matter at all to the good coal whether it burned out its heart in an attic or a palace; wherever it was put to do its duty, it did it. now gay little flames and cheerful bursts of bubbling gas rendered even the hideous room bright. "w'y, it's long past tea!" said connie. "i'll put on the kettle and we'll have our tea, ronald. maybe aggie'll be back in a minute, and maybe she'd like a cup o' tea." connie put on the kettle, and then went to the cupboard to get out the provisions. these were exceedingly short. there was little more than a heel of very stale bread, and no butter, and only a scrape of jam; but there was a little tea in the bottom of the tea-canister, and a little coarse brown sugar in a cup. connie laid the table quite cheerfully. "we'll toast the bread," she said. "tea and toast is famous food." she got an old, bent toasting-fork, and she and ronald laughed and even joked a little as they browned the stale bread until it was quite crisp and tempting-looking. "i'd ever so much rather have this tea than a great, big, grand one with mammy warren," said connie. "yes, connie," said the boy; "so would i." they had no milk with their tea, but that was, after all but a small circumstance. they scraped out the jam-pot and spread its contents on the hot toast, and contrived to enjoy the slender meal to the utmost. ronald said nothing about breakfast the next morning; he doubtless did not even give it a thought. but connie remembered it well, although she took care not to allude to it. ten o'clock struck, and still agnes did not appear. eleven, twelve--and no sign either of mammy warren or the girl. "shall we go to bed?" said ronald. "let's bring our beds and lay 'em on the floor," said connie, "in this room. some'ow i don't think as mammy warren 'ull come back to-night. she wouldn't 'ave tuk all her things ef she meant to come; would she, ronald?" "i don't know," said ronald. he was very sleepy, for the hour was terribly late for so young a child to be awake. after a little reflection connie decided only to drag his bed into the front room. she could lie on the floor by his side, wrapped up in a blanket. the fire was built up with the last scrap of coal in the hod, and then ronald lay down without undressing. connie begged of him to take off his clothes, but he said to her: "maybe father'll come in the middle of the night. i somehow feel as if something must happen to-night, and i don't want not to be ready." connie therefore only removed his shoes. she tucked the blankets round him, and said, "good-night, ronnie." "what is that verse?" asked ronald again. "'he that shall endure to the end'----" "'shall be saved,'" finished connie. when she came to these words she noticed that little ronald was sound asleep. connie changed her mind about lying down. she sat on the floor by the boy's side, laid her head on the pillow close to his, and also dropped asleep. big ben called out the hour but the children slept. perhaps the voice spoke to them in their dreams, for they smiled now and then. doubtless they were far away in those dreams from the dreadful attic, from the influence of a most cruel woman, from hunger and cold. the fire burned to a fine red glow, and then cooled down and grew gray and full of ashes, and eventually went out. for it had burned its heart out trying to help the children; and without a heart, even fire cannot keep alive. but the two children slept on, although ronald now stirred uneasily and coughed in his sleep. it seemed to connie that she also was oppressed by something, as though a great and terrible nightmare were sitting on her chest. ronald coughed louder and opened his eyes. "connie, connie--where are we?" he cried. connie sat up with a stare. "i be stiff," she began, "and--and cold. wotever's the hour? bide a bit, ronald, and i'll find the matches and turn on the gas." "what's the matter with the room?" said ronald. "i don't know nothing," said connie. "my eyes smart," said ronald, "and i can't breathe." "i feel queer too," said connie. "i won't be a second finding out, though. you lie quiet." she groped about, found a match-box, which still contained a few matches, struck a light, and applied it to the gas, which was at full pressure now, and roared out, making a great flame. "w'y, the room's full o' smoke," said connie. "wottever can it be?" ronald sat up in bed, opening his eyes. "where does it come from?" he said. "the fire is out." just then big ben proclaimed the hour of three. "he that shall endure," thought connie. "to the end," darted through ronald's mind; and just then both children heard an unmistakable and awful roar. was it the roar of human voices or the roar of something else--a devouring and awful element? connie turned white. now, if ever, was the time to be brave. "i'll open the winder and look out," she said. she sprang towards it and, with a great effort, pushed it half up. the moment she did so, the noise from without came louder, and the noise from within was more deafening. "fire! fire!" shouted a multitude of people from below in the street; and "fire! fire!" cried the frenzied inhabitants of the old tenement-house. connie and ronald were on the top story. connie went back to ronald. "the house is on fire, ronnie!" she said. "but we mustn't be frightened, either of us; we must think of the grand verse, and of what big ben said. big ben's an angel, you mind; giles knows all about that." "oh yes," said ronald, his teeth chattering; for the draught from the open window, although it relieved his breathing, made him intensely cold. "it's a beautiful verse, isn't it, connie?" he continued. "yus," said connie. "let's get to the winder, ronnie dear. we'll call out. there are people down in the street. the fire-engines 'ull be on in a minute; we'll be saved, in course." "oh, of course," said ronnie. he staggered to the floor, and put his feet into his shoes. "a good thing i wasn't undressed," he said. "yus," said connie. "now, let's get to the winder." the children staggered there. the smoke was getting more dense; the room was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating thing. but at the window there was relief. connie put out her head for a minute, and then quickly drew it back. "there's flames burstin' out o' the winders," she said. "i wish as the firemen 'ud come." the children clung to one another. just then, above the roar of the flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly audible. the fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in brass helmets: the brave firemen--members of the noblest brigade in the world--were on the spot. "it's hall right," said connie. "they've come. don't yer be a bit frightened, ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. you ax giles w'en you see him wot _'e_ thinks o' firemen. '_es_ father were one. oh, there's no fear now that they've come!" she pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders. ronald did likewise. the men out in the street were acting promptly. the hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. but all to no purpose; the house was past saving. was any one within? "no," said a woman down in the crowd; "hevery soul is out, even to my last biby--bless him!" she gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep. but the firemen of the london brigade are very careful to ascertain for themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life. "has any one come down from the top floor?" asked a tall young man. he had a splendid figure--broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic frame--which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of fireman. just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and connie, with her fair hair surrounding her little face, and ronald clinging to her hand, were both distinctly seen. "my god!" cried the firemen, "there are children up there. put the escape up at once--don't lose an instant--i am going up to them." "you can't; it's certain death," said one or two. several other voices were also raised in expostulation. but if any one in that crowd supposed that they were going to turn george anderson, the bravest fireman in london, from his purpose, they were mistaken. "that little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said once or twice under his breath. and then up and up he went--up and up--the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out behind them now) watching and watching. his fear was that they might fall from their perilous position. but they had both crept out on to the window-ledge. "courage, courage!" he shouted to them. "hold tight--i'll be there in a minute!" "the window is so hot!" gasped connie. "think--think of the voice," whispered ronald. he closed his eyes. in another minute he would have been beyond all earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and his mother would meet him. but this was not to be. in less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured. ronald fainted in that descent, but connie kept her consciousness. they were out of mammy warren's awful house. she had a queer sense as though she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire. people crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up. "what is your name?" he said to connie. "connie," she replied. "well, connie," he answered, "it was the sight of your beautiful face in the window that gave me courage to save yer. now, do you want to have a shelter for yourself and your little brother to-night?' "thank you, sir," said connie. the man pulled a card--it looked just like a gentleman's visiting card--out of his pocket. "will you take that," he said, "to no. carlyle terrace? it's just round the corner. take your little brother with you. there are two bells to the house. look for the one that has the word 'night' written under it. it used to be a doctor's house, but there's no doctor there now. my mother will understand--give her that card, and tell her what has happened. good night." he turned away. it was some time before connie and ronald could get rid of the many neighbors who volunteered help, and who regarded the two pretty children as the hero and heroine of the hour. offers of a shake-down for the night, of a hasty meal, of a warm fire, came to connie from all sorts of people. but she had made up her mind to follow out the directions of the tall fireman, and saying that she had friends at no. carlyle terrace, she and ronald soon started off to go to the address the fireman had given them. they were both too excited to feel the effects of all they had gone through at first, but when they reached the house, and connie pressed the button of the bell which had the word "night" written under it, she was trembling exceedingly. "why are we coming here?" asked ronald. "i dunno," said connie. "seems as though a hangel was with us all the time." "i expect so," answered ronald in a very weak voice. "and," continued connie, "he's a-leadin' of us 'ere." they had pressed the bell, and quickly--wonderfully quickly--they heard steps running down the stairs; and the door was opened by a tall woman--very tall and very thin--with a beautiful pale face and soft motherly eyes. "what is it?" she asked. "what is the matter? oh, my poor little dears! and how you smell of fire! have you been in a fire?" "please, ma'am," said connie, "be yer the mother o' mr. george anderson--the bravest fireman, ma'am? he told me to give yer this card, ma'am." "i am mrs. anderson. oh, of course, if he's sent you----" "_'e_ saved us from the fire, ma'am," said connie. "come in, you poor little things," said mrs anderson. she drew the children in; she shut the door behind them. it seemed to connie when that door shut that it shut out sorrow and pain and hunger and cold; for within the house there was warmth--not only warmth for frozen little bodies, but for tired souls. mrs. anderson was one of the most motherly women in london; and george, her son, knew what he was about when he sent the children to her. soon they were revived with warm baths and with hot port-wine and water, and very soon afterwards they were both lying in beds covered with linen sheets that felt soft and fine as silk. but mrs. anderson sat by them both while they slept, for she did not like the look on the boy's face, and felt very much afraid of the shock for him. "the little girl can stand more," she said to herself. "she's a beautiful little creature, but she's a child of the people. she has been accustomed to hardships all her life; but with the boy it's different--he's a gentleman by birth. something very cruel has happened to him, poor little lad! and this seems to be the final straw." mrs. anderson was a very wise woman, and her fears with regard to little ronald were all too quickly realized. by the morning the boy was in a high state of fever. a doctor was summoned, and mrs. anderson herself nursed him day and night. connie begged to be allowed to remain, and her request was granted. "for the present you shall stay with me," said mrs. anderson. "i don't know your story, nor the story of this little fellow, but i am determined to save his life if i can." "i can tell yer something," said connie. "little ronald's a real gent--_'e's_ the son of a hofficer in 'is majesty's harmy, an' the hofficer's name is major harvey, v. c." "what?" cried mrs. anderson. she started back in amazement. "why, i knew him and his wife," she said. "i know he was killed in south africa, and i know his dear wife died about a year ago. why, i've been looking for this child. is your story quite true, little girl?" "yus, it's quite true," said connie. "but tell me--do tell me--is his father really dead?" "i fear so. it is true that his death was not absolutely confirmed; but he has been missing for over two years." "ma'am," said connie, "wot do yer mean by his death not bein' confirmed?" "i mean this, little girl," said mrs. anderson--"that his body was never found." "then he ain't dead," said connie. "what do you mean?" "i feel it in my bones," said connie, "same as ronald felt it in his bones. _'e_ ain't dead." mrs. anderson laid her hand on the girl's pretty hair. "i am getting in a real trained nurse to look after ronald harvey," she said. "if he's the son of my old friend, more than ever is he my care now; and you this evening, little connie, shall tell me your story." this connie did. when she had described all that had occurred to her during the last few weeks, mrs. anderson was so amazed that she could hardly speak. "my poor child!" she said. "you can't guess what terrible dangers you've escaped. that dreadful woman was, without doubt, a member of a large gang of burglars. several have been arrested within the last day or two, and i have no doubt we shall hear of her soon at the police courts." "burglars?" said connie--"burglars? them be thieves, bean't they?" "yes--thieves." "but what could she do with us?" said connie. "she used you for her own purposes. while people were looking at you, she was doubtless picking their pockets. don't think any more about it, dear, only be thankful that you have escaped. and now, don't you feel very anxious about your father and your old friends?" "yus," said connie. "i'd like to go home. i'd like them to know once for all what happened." "would you like to go back to-night? you can return to me, you know. i shall be up with ronald until far into the night." connie rose swiftly. "you're not afraid of the streets, my poor little child?" "oh no, ma'am. i'm only quite an ordinary girl. i ha' learnt my lesson," continued connie. "i were real discontent wid my life at the factory, but i'll be discontent no more." "you had a sharp lesson," said mrs. anderson. "i think god wants you to be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or he wouldn't have let you go through so much." "yes, ma'am," answered connie; "and i'll try 'ard to be good and brave." chapter xiii. peter harris. while connie was going through such strange adventures in mammy warren's attic room, her father, giles, and sue, and dear father john were nearly distracted about her. peter harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. he was fond of drink. he was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for connie. when he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty, motherless girl. as day after day passed without his seeing her, he got nearly frantic with anxiety. at first he tried to make nothing of her disappearance, saying that the girl had doubtless gone to visit some friends; but when a few days went by and there were no tidings of her, and sue assured him that she not only never appeared now at the great warehouse in cheapside where they used to work together, but also that she had been seen last with agnes coppenger, and that agnes coppenger had also disappeared from her work at the sewing-machine, he began to fear that something bad had happened. father john was consulted, and father john advised the necessity of at once acquainting the police. but although the police did their best, they could get no trace whatever either of agnes or of connie. thus the days passed, and connie's friends were very unhappy about her. her absence had a bad effect on peter, who, from his state of grief and uneasiness, had taken more and more consolation out of the gin-palace which he was fond of frequenting. every night now he came home tipsy, and the neighbors were afraid to go near. soon he began to abuse connie, to say unkind things about her, and to fly into a passion with any neighbor who mentioned her name. giles shed silent tears for his old playmate, and even the voice of big ben hardly comforted him, so much did he miss the genial companionship of pretty connie. but now at last the girl herself was going home. she had no fear. she was full of a wild and yet terrible delight. how often she had longed for her father! connie had a great deal of imagination, and during the dreadful time spent at mother warren's, and in especial since ronald had come, she began to compare her father with ronald's, and gradually but surely to forget the cruel and terrible scenes when that father was drunk, and to think of him only in his best moments when he kissed her and petted her and called her his dear little motherless girl. oh, he would be glad to see her now! he would rejoice in her company. connie quickly found the old house in adam street, and ran up the stairs. one or two people recognized her, and said, "hullo, con! you back?" but being too busy with their struggle for life, did not show any undue curiosity. "is my father in?" asked connie of one. the man said, "he be." and then he added, "yer'd best be careful. he ain't, to say, in his pleasantest mood to-night." connie reached the well-known landing. she turned the handle of the door. it was locked. she heard some one moving within. then a rough voice said: "get out o' that!" "it's me, father!" called connie back. "it's connie!" "don't want yer--get away!" said the voice. connie knelt down and called through the keyhole: "it's me--i've 'ad a dreadful time--let me in." "go 'way--don't want yer--get out o' this!" "oh father--father!" called connie. she began to sob. after all her dreams, after all her longings, after all her cruel trials--to be treated like this, and by her father! it seemed to shake her very belief in fathers, even in the great father of all. "please--please--i'm jest wanting yer awfu' bad!" she pleaded. her gentle and moving voice--that voice for which peter harris, when sober and in his right mind, so starved to hear again--now acted upon him in quite the opposite direction. he had not taken enough to make him stupid, only enough to rouse his worst passions. he strode across the room, flung the door wide, and lifting connie from her knees, said to her: "listen. you left me without rhyme or reason--not even a word or a thought. i sorrowed for yer till i turned to 'ate yer! now then, get out o' this. i don't want yer, niver no more. go down them stairs, unless yer want me to push yer down. go 'way--and be quick!" there was a scowl on his angry face, a ferocious look in his eyes. connie turned quite gently, and without any apparent anger went downstairs. "ah!" said a man in the street, "thought yer wouldn't stay long." "he's wery bad," said connie. she walked slowly, as though her heart were bleeding, down adam street until she came to the house where father john atkins lived. it was a little house, much smaller than its neighbors. father john's room was on the ground floor. she knocked at the door. there was no answer. she turned the handle: it yielded to her pressure. she went in, sank down on the nearest chair, and covered her face with both her hands. she was trembling exceedingly. the shock of her father's treatment was far greater than she could well bear in her present weak and over-excited condition. she had gone through--oh, so much--so very much! that awful time with mammy warren; her anxiety with regard to little ronald; and then that final, awful, never-to-be-forgotten day, that night which was surely like no other night that had ever dawned on the world--the noise of the gathering flames, the terrific roar they made through the old building; the shouts of the people down below; the heat, the smoke, the pain, the cruel, cruel fear; and then last but not least--the deliverance! when that gallant fireman appeared, it seemed to both connie and ronald as though the gates of heaven had opened, and they had been taken straight away from the pains of hell into the glories of the blest. but all these things told on the nerves, and when connie now had been turned away from her father's door, she was absolutely unfit for such treatment. when she reached father john's she was as weak and miserable a poor little girl as could found anywhere in london. "my dear! my dear!" said the kind voice--the sort of voice that always thrilled the hearts of those who listened to him. a hand was laid on the weeping girl's shoulder. "look up," said the voice again. then there was a startled cry, an exclamation of the purest pleasure. "why connie--my dear connie--the good lord has heard our prayers and has sent you back again!" "don't matter," said connie, sobbing on, quite impervious to the kindness, quite unmoved by the sympathy. "there ain't no father 'chart 'eaven," she continued. "i don't believe in 'im no more. there ain't no father, and no jesus christ. ef there were, my own father wouldn't treat me so bitter cruel." "come, connie," said the preacher, "you know quite well that you don't mean those dreadful words. sit down now by the cosy fire; sit in my own little chair, and i'll talk to you, my child. why, connie, can't you guess that we've been praying for you?" "don't matter," whispered connie again. the preacher looked at her attentively. he put his kind hand for a minute on her forehead, and then, with that marvellous knowledge which he possessed of the human heart and the human needs, he said nothing for the time being. connie was not fit to argue, and he knew she was worn-out. he got her to sit in the old arm-chair, and to lay her golden head against a soft cushion, and then he prepared coffee--strong coffee--both for her and himself. it was late, and he was deadly tired. he had been up all the night before. it was his custom often to spend his nights in this fashion; for, as he was fond of expressing it, the divine master seemed to have more work for him to do at night than in the daytime. "there are plenty of others to help in the daytime," thought father john, "but in the darkness the sin and the shame are past talking about. if i can lift a burden from one heart, and help one poor suffering soul, surely that is the best night's rest i can attain to." last night he had put a drunken woman to bed. he had found her on a doorstep, and had managed, notwithstanding his small stature and slender frame, to drag her upstairs. there her terrified children met him. he managed to get them into a calm state of mind, and then induced them to help him for all they were worth. the great, bulky woman was undressed and put into bed. she slept, and snored loudly, and the children crowded round. he made them also go to bed, and went away, promising to call in the morning. he did so. the woman was awake, conscious, and bitterly ashamed. he spoke to her as he alone knew how, and, before he left, induced her to go with him to take the pledge. he then gave her a little money out of his slender earnings to get a meal for the children, and spent the rest of the day trying to get fresh employment for her. she had been thrown out of work by her misdemeanors; but father john was a power, and more than one lady promised to try mrs. simpkins once again. the little preacher was, therefore, more tired than his wont. he bent over connie. she drank her coffee, and, soothed by his presence, became calmer herself. "now then," he said, "you will tell me everything. why did you run away?" "'cos i were tired o' machine-work. but, oh, father john! i niver, niver meant to stay aw'y. i jest thought as i were to get a nice new situation; i niver guessed as it 'ud be a prison." connie then told her story, with many gaps and pauses. "you see," said father john when she had finished, "that when you took the management of your own life into your own hands you did a very dangerous thing. god was guiding you, and you thought you could do without him. you have been punished." "yus," said connie. "i'll niver be the same again." "i hope, indeed, that you will not be the same. you have gone through marvellous adventures, and but for god himself you would not now be in the world. it is not only your pain and misery that you have to consider, but you have also to think of the pain and misery you inflicted on others." "no," said connie defiantly, "that i won't do. i thought father 'ud care, but he turned me from 'ome." "he did care, connie. i never knew any one so distracted. he cared so terribly, and was so sore about you, that he took to drink to drown his pain. in the morning, when he is sober, you will see what a welcome he will give you." "no," said connie, shaking her head. "but i say he will. he will help you, and he will be a father to you. i will take you to him myself in the morning." connie did not say anything more. when she had finished her coffee, the preacher suggested that he should take her to sue and giles. the girl looked at him wildly. in telling her story, she had never mentioned the name of the lady who had taken her in, nor the name of the brave fireman who had befriended her. but now father john boldly asked her for these particulars. her little face flushed and she looked up defiantly. "i dunnut want to give 'em," she said. "but i ask you for them, connie," said the preacher. connie could no more withstand father john's authoritative tone than she could fly. after a minute's pause she did tell what she knew, and father john wrote mrs. anderson's address down in his note-book. "now then, connie," he said, rising, "you're better. sue and giles will be so glad to see you once more! come, dear; let me take you to them." connie stood up. there was a curious, wild light in her eyes; but she avoided looking at the street preacher, and he did not observe it. had he done so he would have been more careful. the two went out into the street together. it was now getting really late. the distance between the preacher's room and the humble lodgings where sue and giles lived was no great way, but to reach the home of the little giles they had to pass some very ill-favored courts. at one of these connie suddenly saw a face she knew. she started, trembling, and would have fled on had not a hand been raised to warning lips. the preacher at that instant was stopped by a man who wanted to ask him a question with regard to a child of his whom father john was trying to find employment for. before he knew what had happened, connie's hand was dragged from his. the girl uttered a slight cry, and the next minute was enveloped in the darkness of one of the worst courts in the whole of london. "quiet--quiet!" said a voice. "don't you let out one sound or you'll niver speak no more. it's me--agnes. i won't do yer no 'arm ef ye're quiet. come along with me now." connie went, for she could not do anything else. her feelings were absolutely confused. she did not know at that fearful moment whether she was glad or sorry to be back with agnes coppenger again. she only felt a sense of relief at having slipped away from father john, and at having, as she thought, parted from her own cruel father. "oh agnes!" she whispered, "hide me; and don't--don't take me back to mammy warren!" "bless yer!" said agnes, "she's coped by the perlice. mammy warren's awaiting her trial in the 'ouse of detention; yer won't be worried by her no more." "w'ere are yer taking me, then, agnes?" "'ome--to my 'ouse, my dear." "yer'll promise to let me go in the morning?" "safe an' sure i will--that is, ef yer want to go." agnes was now walking so fast that connie had the utmost difficulty in keeping up with her. she seemed all the time to be dodging, getting into shadows, avoiding lights, turning rapidly round corners, making the most marvellous short cuts, until at last--at last--she reached a very tall house, much taller than the one where mammy warren had lived. she made a peculiar whistle when she got there. the door was opened by a boy of about connie's age. "'ere we be, freckles," said agnes; "and i ha' got the beautiful and saintly connie back again." "hurrah for saintly connie!" cried freckles. the two girls were dragged in by a pair of strong hands, and connie found herself in utter darkness, descending some slippery stairs--into what depths she had not the slightest idea. "these are the cellars," said agnes when at last a door was flung open, and she found herself in a very poorly lit apartment with scarcely any furniture. "you was in hattics before," continued agnes; "now ye're in the cellars. yer didn't greatly take to kind mammy warren, but perhaps yer'll like simeon stylites better. he's a rare good man is simeon--wery pious too. he sets afore him a saint o' the olden days, an' tries to live accordin'. he ain't in yet, so yer can set down and take things heasy." connie sat down. "i'm that frightened!" she said. agnes began to laugh. "sakes!" she exclaimed, "you ha' no cause. simeon's a real feeling man, and he's allers kind to pore gels, more particular ef they 'appen to be purty." agnes now proceeded to light a fire in a huge, old-fashioned grate. there seemed to be abundance of coal. she built the fire up high, and when it roared up the chimney she desired connie to draw near. "you ain't got over yer fright yet," she began. "don't talk of it," said connie. "i guess as i won't--yer do look piquey. 'ow's the other kid?" "i dunno." agnes laughed and winked. after a minute she said, "yer needn't tell me. 'e's with mrs. anderson, mother o' the fireman. the fireman--'e's a real 'andsome man--i can tike to that sort myself. the kid's wery bad, he is. wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional." "perfessional?" said connie. "yus--ef he lives 'e'll be one. simeon stylites 'ull see to that. you'll be a perfessional, too. there's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread." "i don't understand," said connie. "sakes! you be stupid. it's good to open yer heyes now. wot do yer think mammy warren wanted yer for?" "i never could tell, only mrs. anderson said----" "yus--tell us wot she said. she's a torf--let's get _'er_ idees on the subjeck." "i won't tell yer," said connie. "oh--_that's_ yer little gime! wull--i don't keer--i'll tell yer from my p'int o' view. mammy warren wanted yer--not for love--don't think no sech thing--but jest 'cos she could make you a sort o' decoy-duck. w'ile she was pickin' up many a good harvest, folks was a-starin' at you; an' w'en the little boy were there too, w'y, they stared all the more. she 'ad the boy first, and he were a fine draw. but he tuk ill, an' then she had to get some sort, an' i told her 'bout you, and 'ow purty you were, an' wot golden 'air you 'ad. 'her golden 'air was 'angin' down her back,' i sung to her, an' she were tuk with the picter. then i got yer for her--you knows 'ow. wull, pore mammy warren! she's in quad for the present. but she'll come out agin none the worse; bless yer! they feeds 'em fine in quad now. many a one as i know goes in reg'lar for the cold weather. you see, we'n yer gets yer lodgin' an' yer food at government expense, it don't cost yer nothing, an' yer come out none the worse. that's wot mammy warren 'ull do. but simeon stylites-'e's a man 'oo prides himself on niver 'avin' been tuk yet. he'll teach yer 'ow to be a perfessional. now then--yer ain't frightened, be yer?" "no," said connie. once again she was the old connie. she had got over her anguish of despair and grief about her father's conduct. she must get out of this, and the only chance was to let agnes think that she didn't mind. "yer'll make a _beautiful_ perfessional!" said agnes, looking at her with admiration now. "i could--i could grovel at yer feet--pore me, so plain as i ham an' hall, an' you so wery genteel. there now, 'oo's that a-knockin' at the door?" agnes went to the door. she opened it about an inch, and had a long colloquy with some one outside. "all right, freckles," she said, "you can go to bed." she then came back to connie. "simeon ain't returning afore to-morrer," she said. "we'll tike to our beds. come along with me, connie." chapter xiv. the search. when connie had been suddenly dragged with extreme force from the preacher's side, he had darted after her, and would have been knocked down himself, and perhaps killed, if the neighbor who had accosted him had not also gone a step or two into the dark alley and dragged him back by main force. "you don't go down there, father john," he said--"not without two or three big men, as big as myself. that you don't--i'll keep you back, father john by all the strength in my body; for if you go down you'll be killed, and then what use will yer be to the poor little gel?" father john acknowledged the justice of this. a crowd of men and women had gathered round, as they always did in those parts at the slightest disturbance. father john recognized many of them, and soon formed a little body of strong men and women. the policemen also came to their aid. they searched the blind alley, going into every house. in short, they did not leave a stone unturned to recover poor connie; but, alas! all in vain. father john was at least glad that he had not gone to visit sue and giles. he could not bear to bring them such terrible tidings as that poor connie had come home and had been kidnapped again. "we'll get her," said the policeman. "there are lots of thieves about here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, mother warren, we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. don't you be afraid, father john; the child will be in your hands before the day is out." nevertheless, father john spent a sleepless night, and early--very early--in the morning he started off to visit peter harris. peter had slept all night. in the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a queer feeling that something very bad had happened. when father john entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes. "wottever is it?" he said. "i had a dream--i must be mistook, of course, but i thought connie had come back." "well," said father john very gravely, "and so she did come back." "wot?" asked the father. he sat up on the bed where he had thrown himself, and pushed back his rough hair. "i have some very sad news for you, harris. will you wash first and have a bit of breakfast, or shall i tell you now?" "get out with you!" said the man. "will i wash and have a bit o' breakfast? tell me about my child, an' be quick!" all the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened. "connie back?" said the man. "purty little connie? you don't niver say so! but where be she? wherever is my little gel?" "you ask god where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice. "she's nowhere to be found. she came here, and you--you turned her away, peter harris." "i did wot?" said harris. "you turned her off--yes, she came to me, poor child. you had taken too much and didn't know what you were doing." the man's face was ghastly pale. "what do yer mean?" he said. "you took too much, and you were cruel to your child. she came to me in bitter grief. i did what i could to soothe her; i assured her that i know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome her home in the morning." "well, and so i be. welcome my lass home? there ain't naught i wouldn't do for her; the best that can be got is for my connie. oh, my dear, sweet little gel! it's the fatted calf she'll 'ave--the prodigal didn't have a bigger welcome." "but she is no prodigal. she was sinned against; she didn't sin. doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. she was never very strong, perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. she was often afraid to go home, peter harris, because of you; for you were so savage to her when you took, as you call it, a drop too much. i'll tell you another time her story, for there is not a moment now to spare; you must get up and help to find her." peter harris sprang to his feet just as though an electric force had pulled him to that position. "find her?" he said. "but she were here--here! where be she? wot did yer do with her, father john?" "i didn't dare to bring her back here last night, and she could not stay with me. i was taking her to giles and sue when----" "man--speak!" harris had caught the preacher by his shoulder. father john staggered for a minute, and then spoke gently, "as we were passing a blind alley some one snatched her from me, right into the pitch darkness. i followed, but was pulled back myself. as soon as possible we formed a party and went to search for her, aided by the police; but she has vanished. it is your duty now to help to find her. the police have great hopes that they have got a clue, but nothing is certain. beyond doubt the child is in danger. wake up, harris. think no more of that horrible poison that is killing you, body and soul, and do your utmost to find your lost child." "god in heaven help me!" said the miserable man. "lost--you say? and she come 'ere--and i turned her off? oh, my little connie!" "keep up your courage, man; there's not a minute of time to spend in vain regrets. you must help the police. you know nearly all the byways and blind alleys of this part of london. you can give valuable information; come at once." a minute or two later the two men went out together. chapter xv. concentration of purpose. while these dreadful things were happening to connie, sue rose with the dawn, rubbed her sleepy eyes until they opened broad and wide, and went with all youthful vigor and goodwill about her daily tasks. first she had to light the fire and prepare giles's breakfast; then to eat her own and tidy up the room; then, having kissed giles, who still slept, and left all in readiness for him when he awoke, she started for her long walk from westminster to st. paul's churchyard. she must be at her place of employment by eight o'clock, and sue was never known to be late. with her bright face, smooth, well-kept hair, and neat clothes, she made a pleasing contrast to most of the girls who worked at messrs. cheadle's cheap sewing. sue possessed in her character two elements of success in life. she had directness of aim and concentration of purpose. no one thought the little workgirl's aims very high; no one ever paused to consider her purpose either high or noble; but sue swerved not from aim or purpose, either to the right hand or to the left. she was the bread-winner in the small family. that was her present manifest duty. and some day she would take giles away to live in the country. that was her ambition. every thought she had to spare from her machine-work and her many heavy duties went to this far-off, grand result. at night she pictured it; as she walked to and from her place of work she dwelt upon it. some day she and giles would have a cottage in the country together. very vague were sue's ideas of what country life was like. she had never once been in the country; she had never seen green fields, nor smelt, as they grow fresh in the hedges, wild flowers. she imagined that flowers grew either in bunches, as they were sold in convent garden, or singly in pots. it never entered into her wildest dreams that the ground could be carpeted with the soft sheen of bluebells or the summer snow of wood anemones, or that the hedge banks could hold great clusters of starry primroses. no, sue had never seen the place where she and giles would live together when they were old. she pictured it like the town, only clean--very clean--with the possibility of procuring eggs really fresh and milk really pure, and of perhaps now and then getting a bunch of flowers for giles without spending many pence on them. people would have called it a poor dream, for sue had no knowledge to guide her, and absolutely no imagination to fill in details; but, all the same, it was golden in its influence on the young girl, imparting resolution to her face and purpose to her eyes, and encircling her round, in her young and defenseless womanhood, as a guardian angel spreading his wings about her. she walked along to-day brightly as usual. the day was a cold one, but sue was in good spirits. she was in good time at her place, and sat down instantly to her work. a girl sat by her side. her name was mary jones. she was a weakly girl, who coughed long and often as she worked. "i must soon give up, sue," she panted between slight pauses in her work. "this 'ere big machine seems to tear me hall to bits, like; and then i gets so hot, and when we is turned out in the middle o' the day the cold seems to strike so dreadful bitter yere;" and she pressed her hand to her sunken chest. "'tis goin' to snow, too, sure as sure, to-day," answered sue. "don't you think as you could jest keep back to-day, mary jones? maybe you mightn't be seen, and i'd try hard to fetch you in something hot when we comes back." "ye're real good, and i'll just mak' shift to stay in," replied mary jones. but then the manager came round, and the girls could say no more for the present. at twelve o'clock, be the weather what it might, all had to turn out for half an hour. this, which seemed a hardship, was absolutely necessary for the proper ventilation of the room; but the delicate girls felt the hardship terribly, and as many of them could not afford to go to a restaurant, there was nothing for them but to wander about the streets. at the hour of release to-day it still snowed fast, but sue with considerable cleverness, had managed to hide mary jones in the warm room, and now ran fast through the blinding and bitter cold to see where she could get something hot and nourishing to bring back to her. her own dinner, consisting of a hunch of dry bread and dripping, could be eaten in the pauses of her work. her object now was to provide for the sick girl. she ran fast, for she knew a shop where delicious penny pies were to be had, and it was quite possible to demolish penny pies unnoticed in the large workroom. the shop, however, in question was some way off, and sue had no time to spare. she had nearly reached it, and had already in imagination clasped the warm pies in her cold hands, when, suddenly turning a corner, she came face to face with harris. harris was walking along moodily, apparently lost in thought. when he saw sue, however, he started, and took hold of her arm roughly. "sue," he said, "does you know as connie came back last night?" "connie?" cried sue. her face turned pale and then red again in eagerness. "then god 'ave heard our prayers!" she exclaimed with great fervor. "oh! won't my little giles be glad?" "you listen to the end," said the man. he still kept his hand on her shoulder, not caring whether it hurt her or not. "she come back, my purty, purty little gel, but i 'ad tuk too much, and i were rough on her and i bid her be gone, and she went. she went to father john; _'e_ were kind to her, and 'e were taking her to you, w'en some willain--i don't know 'oo--caught her by the arm and pulled her down a dark alley, and she ain't been seen since. wottever is to be done? i'm near mad about her--my pore little gel. and to think that i--_i_ should ha' turned her aw'y!" sue listened with great consternation to this terrible tale. she forgot all about poor mary jones and the penny pie which she hoped to smuggle into the workroom for her dinner. she forgot everything in all the world but the fact that connie had come and gone again, and that peter harris was full of the most awful despair and agony about her. "i'm fit to die o' grief," said the man. "i dunno wot to do. the perlice is lookin' for her 'igh an' low, and---- oh sue, i am near off my 'ead!" sue thought for a minute. "is father john looking for her too?" she said. "w'y, yus--of course he be. i'm to meet the perlice again this afternoon, an' we'll--we'll make a rare fuss." "yer'll find her, in course," said sue. "w'y, there ain't a doubt," she continued. "wot do yer mean by that?" "there couldn't be a doubt," continued the girl; "for god, who brought her back to us all, 'ull help yer if yer ax 'im." "do yer believe that, sue?" "sartin sure i do--i couldn't live if i didn't." "you're a queer un," said harris, he felt a strange sort of comfort in the rough little girl's presence. it seemed to him in a sort of fashion that there was truth in her words. she was very wise--wiser than most. he had always respected her. "you're a queer, sensible gel," he said then--"not like most. i am inclined to believe yer. i'm glad i met yer; you were always connie's friend." "oh yus," said sue; "i love her jest as though she were my real sister." "an' yer do think as she'll come back again?" "i'm sartin sure of it." "turn and walk with me a bit, sue. i were near mad w'en i met yer, but somehow you ha' given me a scrap o' hope." "mr. harris," said sue, all of a sudden, "you were cruel to connie last night; but w'en she comes back again you'll be different, won't yer?" "i tuk the pledge this morning," said harris in a gloomy voice. "then in course you'll be different. it were w'en yer tuk too much that you were queer. w'en you're like you are now you're a wery kind man." "be i, sue?" said harris. he looked down at the small girl. "no one else, unless it be pore connie, iver called me a kind man." "and i tell yer wot," continued sue--"ef ye're sure she'll come back--as sure as i am--she----" "then i am sure," said harris. "i'm as sure as there's a sky above us. there now!" "and a god above us," said sue. the man was silent. "in that case," continued sue, "let's do our wery best. let's 'ave iverything nice w'en she comes 'ome. let's 'ave a feast for her, an' let me 'elp yer." "yer mean that yer'll come along to my room an' put things in order?" said harris. "yes; and oh, mr. harris! couldn't yer take her a little bit of a present?" "right you are, wench," he said. harris's whole face lit up. "that _be_ a good thought!" he clapped sue with violence on the shoulder. "right you be! an' i know wot she've set 'er silly little 'eart on--w'y, a ring--a purty ring with a stone in it; and 'ere's a shop--the wery kind for our purpose. let's come in--you an' me--and get her one this wery instant minute." the two entered the shop. a drawer of rings was brought for harris to select from. he presently chose a little ring, very fine, and with a tiny turquoise as decoration. he felt sure that this would fit connie's finger, and laying down his only sovereign on the counter, waited for the change. sue had gone a little away from him, to gaze in open-eyed wonder at the many trinkets exhibited for sale. notwithstanding her excitement about connie, she was too completely a woman not to be attracted by finery of all sorts; and here were scarves and laces and brooches and earrings--in short, that miscellaneous array of female decorations so fascinating to the taste of girls like sue. in this absorbing moment she forgot even connie. in the meantime, in this brief instant while sue was so occupied, the man who served turned his back to get his change from another drawer. he did this leaving the box with the rings on the counter. in the corner of this same box, hidden partly away under some cotton-wool, lay two lockets, one of great value, being gold, set with brilliants. in this instant, quick as thought, harris put in his hand, and taking the diamond locket, slipped it into his pocket. he then received his change, and he and sue left the shop together. he noticed, however, as he walked out that the shopman was missing the locket. his theft could not remain undiscovered. another instant and he would be arrested and the locket found on his person. he had scarcely time for the most rapid thought--certainly no time for any sense of justice to visit his not too fine conscience. the only instinct alive in him in that brief and trying moment was that of self-preservation. he must preserve himself, and the means lay close at hand. he gave sue a little push as though he had stumbled against her, and then, while the girl's attention was otherwise occupied, he transferred the locket from his own pocket to hers, and with a hasty nod, dashed down a side-street which lay close by. rather wondering at his sudden exit, sue went on. until now she had forgotten mary jones. she remembered her with compunction. she also knew that she had scarcely time to get the penny pies and go back to cheapside within the half-hour. if she ran, however, she might accomplish this feat. sue was very strong, and could run as fast as any girl; she put wings to her feet, and went panting down the street. in the midst of this headlong career, however, she was violently arrested. she heard the cry of "stop thief!" behind her, and glancing back, saw two men, accompanied by some boys, in full pursuit. too astonished and frightened to consider the improbability of their pursuing her, she ran harder than ever. she felt horrified, and dreaded their rudeness should they reach her. down side-streets and across byways she dashed, the crowd in pursuit increasing each moment. at last she found that she had run full-tilt into the arms of a policeman, who spread them out to detain her. "what's the matter, girl? who are you running away from?" "oh, hide me--hide me!" said poor sue. "they are calling out 'stop thief!' and running after me so hard." before the policeman could even reply, the owner of the pawnshop had come up. "you may arrest that girl, policeman," he said roughly. "she and a man were in my shop just now, and one or other of 'em stole a valuable diamond locket from me." "what a shame! i didn't touch it!" said sue. "i never touched a thing as worn't my own in hall my life!" "no doubt, my dear," said the policeman; "but of course you won't object to be searched?" "no, of course," said sue; "you may search me as much as you like--you won't get no stolen goods 'bout me;" and she raised her head fearlessly and proudly. the crowd who had now thickly collected, and who, as all crowds do, admired pluck, were beginning to applaud, and no doubt the tide was turning in sue's favor, when the policeman, putting his hand into her pocket, drew out the diamond locket. an instant's breathless silence followed this discovery, followed quickly by some groans and hisses from the bystanders. "oh, but ain't she a hardened one!" two or three remarked; and all pressed close to watch the result. sue had turned very white--so white that the policeman put his hand on her shoulder, thinking she was going to faint. "she is innocent," said in his heart of hearts this experienced functionary; but he further added, "it will go hard for her to prove it--poor lass!" aloud he said: "i've got to take you to the lock-up, my girl; for you must say how you 'appened to come by that 'ere little trinket. the quieter you come, and the less you talk, the easier it 'ull go wid you." "i have nothink to say," answered sue. "i can't--can't see it at all. but i'll go wid yer," she added. she did not asseverate any more, nor even say she was innocent. she walked away by the policeman's side, the crowd still following, and the owner of the pawnshop--having recovered his property, and given his address to the policeman--returned to his place of business. sue walked on, feeling stunned; her thought just now was how very much poor mary jones would miss her penny pies. chapter xvi. pickles. the lock-up to which the policeman wanted to convey sue was at some little distance. with his hand on her shoulder, they walked along, the crowd still following. they turned down more than one by-street, and chose all the short cuts that constable z could remember. one of these happened to be a very narrow passage, and a place of decidedly ill repute. the policeman, however, still holding his terrified charge, walked down it, and the crowd followed after. in the very middle of this passage--for it was little more--they were met by a mob even greater than themselves. these people were shouting, vociferating, waving frantic hands, and all pointing upwards. the policeman raised his eyes and saw that the cause of this uproar was a house on fire. it was a very tall, narrow house, and all the top of it was completely enveloped in flames. from one window, from which escape seemed impossible--for the flames almost surrounded it--a man leaned out, imploring some one to save him. the height from the ground was too great for him to jump down, and no fire-escape was yet in sight. policeman z was as kind-hearted a man as ever lived. in the excitement of such a moment he absolutely forgot sue. he rushed into the crowd, scattering them right and left, and sent those who had not absolutely lost their heads flying for the fire-escape and the engines. they all arrived soon after, and the man, who was the only person in the burning part of the house, was brought in safety to the ground. in the midst of the shouting, eager crowd sue stood, forgetting herself, as perhaps every one else there did also, in such intense excitement. scarcely, however, had the rescued man reached the ground when she felt herself violently pulled from behind--indeed, not only pulled, but dragged so strongly that she almost lost her feet. she attempted to scream, but a hand was instantly placed over her mouth, and she found herself running helplessly, and against her will, down a narrow passage which flanked one side of the burning house; beyond this into a small backyard; then through another house into another yard; and so on until she entered a small, very dirty room. this room was full of unknown condiments in jars and pots, some queer stuffed figures in fancy-dresses, some wigs and curls of false hair, and several masks, false noses, etc., etc. sue, entering this room, was pushed instantly into a large arm-chair, whereupon her captor came and stood before her. he was a lad of about her own size, and perhaps a year or two younger. he had a round, freckled face, the lightest blue eyes, and the reddest, most upright shock of hair she had ever seen. he put his arms akimbo and gazed hard at sue, and so motionless became his perfectly round orbs that sue thought he had been turned into stone. suddenly, however, he winked, and said in a shrill, cheerful tone: "well, then, plucky 'un, 'ow does yer find yerself now?" not any number of shocks could quite deprive sue of her common-sense. she had not an idea of what had become of her. was this another and a rougher way of taking her to the lock-up? was this queer boy friend or foe? "be yer agen me, boy?" she said. "agen yer! well, the ingratitude! ha'n't i jest rescued yer from the hands o' that 'ere nipper?" "oh!" exclaimed sue; and the relieved tension of her poor, terrified little heart found vent in two big tears which rose to her eyes. the red-haired boy balanced himself on one toe in order to survey those tears more carefully. "well," he said at length, in a tone in which there was a ludicrous mingling of wonder and contempt--"well, ye're a queer un fur a plucky un--a wery queer un. crying! my eyes! ain't yer hin luck not to be in prison, and ain't that a subject for rejoicing? i don't cry when i'm in luck; but then, thank goodness! i'm not a gel. lor'! they're queer cattle, gels are--wery queer, the best o' 'em. but they're as they're made, poor things! we can't expect much from such weakness. but now look you here, you gel--look up at me, full and solemn in the face, and say if ye're hinnercent in the matter o' that 'ere locket. if yer can say quite solemn and straightforward as yer his innercent, why, i'll help yer; but if yer is guilty--and, mark me, i can tell by yer heyes ef ye're talking the truth--i can do naught, fur i'm never the party to harbor guilty folks. now speak the truth, full and solemn; be yer hinnercent?" here the red-haired boy got down on his knees and brought his eyes within a few inches of sue's eyes. "be yer hinnercent?" he repeated. "yes," answered sue, "i'm quite, quite hinnercent; yer can believe me or not as yer pleases. i'm quite hinnercent, and i won't cry no more ef yer dislikes it. i wor never reckoned a cry-baby." "good!" said the boy; "i b'lieves yer. and now jest tell me the whole story. i come hup jest when the perleeceman and the pawnbroker were a-gripping yer. lor'! i could a' twisted out o' their hands heasy enough; but then, to be thankful agen, i ain't a gel." "there's no good twitting me wid being a gel," interrupted sue; "gels have their use in creation same as boys, and i guess as they're often the pluckier o' the two." "gels pluckier! well, i like that. however, i will say as you stood game. i guessed as you wor hinnercent then. and now jest tell me the story." "it wor this way," began sue, whose color and courage were beginning to return. then she told her tale, suppressing carefully all tears, for she was anxious to propitiate the red-haired boy. she could not, however, keep back the indignation from her innocent young voice; and this indignation, being a sure sign in his mind of pluckiness, greatly delighted her companion. "'tis the jolliest shame i ever heard tell on in all my life," he said in conclusion; but though he said this he chuckled, and seemed to enjoy himself immensely. "now then," he added, "there's no doubt at all as ye're hinnercent. i know that as clear--i feels as sartin on that p'int--as tho' i wor reading the secrets of my own heart. but 'tis jest equal sartin as a magistrate 'ud bring you hin guilty. he'd say--and think hisself mighty wise, too--'you had the locket, so in course yer tuk the locket, and so yer must be punished.' then you'd be tuk from the lock-up to the house o' correction, where you'd 'ave solitary confinement, most like, to teach you never to do so no more." "'ow long 'ud they keep me there?" asked sue. "'ow long 'ud they be wicked enough to keep me there fur what i never did?" "well, as it wor a first offence, and you but young, they might make it a matter of no longer than a year, or maybe eighteen months. but then, agen, they'd 'ave to consider as it wor diamonds as you tuk. they gems is so waluable that in course you must be punished according. yes, considerin' as it wor diamonds, sue, i would say as you got off cheap wid two years." "you talk jest as tho' i had done it," said sue angrily, "when you know perfect well as i'm quite hinnercent." "well, don't be touchy. i'm only considerin' what the judge 'ud say. i ain't the judge. yes, you'd 'ave two years. but, lor'! it don't much matter wot time you 'ad, for you'd never be no good arter." "wot do you mean now?" asked sue. "i mean as you'd never get no 'ployment, nor be able to hold up yer head. who, i'd like to know, 'ud employ a prison lass--and what else 'ud you be?" here sue, disregarding her companion's dislike to tears, broke down utterly, and exclaimed through her sobs: "oh! poor giles--poor, poor giles! it 'ull kill my little giles. oh! i didn't think as lord jesus could give me sech big stones to walk hover." "now ye're gettin' complicated," exclaimed the red-haired boy. "i make 'lowance fur yer tears--ye're but a gel, and i allow as the picture's dark--but who hever is giles? and where are the stones? ye're setting still this 'ere minute, and i guess as the arm-chair in which i placed yer, though none o' the newest, be better than a stone." "giles is my brother," said sue; "and the stones--well, the stones is 'phorical, ef yer knows wot that means." "bless us, no! i'm sure i don't. but tell about giles." so sue wiped her eyes again and went back a little further in her life-story. "it is complicated," said her companion when she paused--"a lame brother, poor chap, and you the support. well, well! the more reason as you should keep out o' prison. now, sue, this is wot i calls _deep_; jest keep still fur a bit, and let me put on my considerin' cap." the red-haired boy seated himself on the floor, thrust his two hands into his shock of hair, and stared very hard and very straight before him. in this position he was perfectly motionless for about the space of half a minute; then, jumping up, he came again very close to sue. "be yer willin' to take the adwice of a person a deal wiser nor yourself? look me full in the heyes and answer clear on that p'int." "yes, i'm sure i am," said sue, in as humble a spirit as the most exalted teacher could desire. "good!" said the red-haired boy, giving his thigh a great clap. "then you've got to hearken to _me_. sue, there's nothink in life fur you but to hide." "to hide!" said sue. "yes. you must on no 'count whatever let the perleece find yer. we must get to discover the guilty party, and the guilty party must confess; but in the meanwhile yer must hide. there must be no smell o' the prison 'bout yer, sue." "oh! but--but--boy--i don't know yer name." "pickles," said the red-haired boy, giving his head a bob. "pickles, at yer sarvice." "well, then, pickles," continued sue, "if i go and hide, what 'ull become o' giles?" "and what 'ull come o' him ef yer go ter prison--yer goose? now, jest yer listen to the words o' wisdom. you mustn't go back to giles, fur as sure as you do the perleece 'ull have you. that would break that little tender brother's heart. no, no, leave giles ter me; you must hide, sue." "but where, and fur how long?" asked sue. "ah! now ye're comin' sensible, and axin' refreshin' questions. where? leave the where to me. how long? leave the how long ter me." "oh pickles! ye're real good," sobbed sue; "and ef yer'll only promise as giles won't die, and that he won't break his heart wid frettin', why, i'll leave it ter you--i'll leave it all ter you." "and yer couldn't--search the world over--leave it to a safer person," said pickles. "so now that's a bargain--i'll take care on giles." chapter xvii. cinderella. "the first thing to be considered, sue," said pickles, as he seated himself on the floor by her side, "is the disguise. the disguise must be wot i consider deep." "wot hever does yer mean now?" asked sue. "why, yer silly, yer don't s'pose as yer can go hout and about as you are now? why, the perleece 'ud have yer. don't yer s'pose as yer'll be advertised?" "i dunno heven wot that his," said sue. "oh! my heyes, ain't yer green! well, it 'ull be, say, like this. there'll be by hall the perleece-stations placards hup, all writ hout in big print: 'gel missing--plain gel, rayther stout, rayther short, wid round moon-shaped face, heyes small, mouth big, hair----" "there! you needn't go on," said sue, who, though by no means vain, scarcely relished this description. "i know wot yer mean, and i don't want ter be twitted with not being beautiful. i'd rayther be beautiful by a long way. i s'pose, as the disguise is ter change me, will it make me beautiful? i'd like that." pickles roared. "well, i never!" he said. "we'll try. let me see; i must study yer fur a bit. hair wot's called sandy now--changed ter black. heyebrows; no heyebrows in 'ticlar--mark 'em hout strong. mouth: couldn't sew hup the mouth in the corners. no, sue, i'm feared as i never can't make no pictur' of yer. but now to be serious. we must set to work, and we has no time ter spare, fur hold fryin-pan 'ull come home, and there'll be the mischief to pay ef he finds us yere." "who's he?" asked sue. "who? why, the owner of this yer shop. i'm in his employ. i'm wot's called his steady right-hand man. see, sue, yere's a pair o' scissors; get yer hair down and clip away, and i'll get ready the dye." pickles now set to work in earnest, and proved himself by no means an unskilled workman. in a wonderfully short space of time sue's long, neutral-tinted hair was changed to a very short crop of the darkest hue. her eyebrows were also touched up, and as her eyelashes happened to be dark, the effect was not quite so inharmonious as might have been feared. pickles was in ecstasies, and declared that "not a policeman in london 'ud know her." he then dived into an inner room in the funny little shop, and returned with an old blue petticoat and a faded red jersey. these sue had to exchange for her own neat but sober frock. "ye're perfect," said pickles, dancing round her. "yer looks hangelic. now fur the name." "the name?" said sue. "must i 'ave a new name too?" "in course yer must; nothink must let the name o' sue pass yer lips. now, mind, that slip o' the tongue might prove fatal." "wery well," said sue in a resigned voice of great trouble. "yer needn't be so down on yer luck. i don't myself think anythink o' the name o' sue; 'tis what i considers low and common. now, wot's yer favorite character? say in acting, now." "there's no character hin all the world as i hadmires like cinderella," said sue. "oh, my heyes, cinderella, of hall people! worn't cinderella wot might 'ave bin called beautiful? dressed shabby, no doubt, and wid hard-hearted sisters--but hadn't she small feet, now? well, sue, i don't say as ye're remarkable fur them special features b'in' small, nor is yer looks _wery_ uncommon; but still, ef yer have a fancy for the name, so be it. it _will_ be fun thinkin' of the beautiful, small-footed cinderella and looking at you. but so much the better, so come along, cinderella, fur fryin'-pan 'ull catch us ef we don't make haste." "where are we to go?" asked the poor little newly made cinderella, with a piteous face. "now, yer needn't look like that. none but cheerful folks goes down wid me. where are yer to go to? why, to mother, of course--where else?" "oh, have you got a mother?" asked sue. "well, wot next? 'ow did i happen ter be born? yes, i has a mother, and the wery best little woman in the world--so come along." chapter xviii. the metropolitan fire brigade. pickles and sue had to go a long way before they reached the destination of "the best little woman in the world." they walked along by-streets and all kinds of queer places, and presently reached a part of london where sue had never been before. they passed whole streets of warehouses, and came then to poor-looking dwelling-houses, but all of an immense height, and very old and dirty. it was the back slums of westminster over again, but it was a westminster severed as far as one pole is from another to sue. "we does a roaring trade yere," said pickles, looking around him with the air of a proprietor well satisfied with his property. "wot in?" asked sue. "wot hin? well, that may surprise yer. hin fire, of course." "wot do yer mean?" asked sue. "wot does i mean? i mean as we deals in that 'ere rampagious helement. we belongs to the great london fire brigade. that his, my brother will does; and i have a cousin wot thinks hisself no end of a swell, and he's beginning his drill. do you suppose, you goose, as i'd have acted as i did, wid that 'ere remarkable coolness jest now, when the fire wor burning, and the man wor on the wery brink of destruction, ef fire had not bin, so to speak, my native hair? but now, here we are at last, so come along hup to mother!" taking sue's hand, pickles dragged her up flight after flight of stairs, until they reached the top of one of the very tall, dirty houses. here he suddenly flung open a door, and pushing sue in, sang out: "mother, yere i be! and let me introduce to you cinderella. her sisters have bin that unkind and mean as cannot be told, and she have taken refuge wid us until the prince comes to tie on the glass slipper." no doubt pickles' mother was thoroughly accustomed to him, for she did not smile at all, but coming gravely forward, took sue's two hands in hers, and looking into her face, and seeing something of the great trouble there, said in a soft, kind tone: "sit down, my dear--sit down. if i can help you i will." "oh, you can help her real fine, mother!" said pickles, beginning to dance a hornpipe round them both. "and i said as you were the wery best little 'oman in all the world, and that you would do hall you could." "so i will, my lad; only now do let the poor dear speak for herself." but sue did not. there are limits beyond which fortitude will not go, and those limits were most suddenly reached by the poor child. her morning's early rising, her long walk to her place of business, her hard work when she got there; then her hurried run for the sick girl's lunch, her cruel betrayal, her very startling capture by pickles; the fact that her hair had been cut off, her clothes changed, her very name altered, until she herself felt that she must really be somebody else, and not the sue whom giles loved. all these things she had borne with tolerable calmness; but now (for sue was really starving) the warm room, the bright fire--above all, the kind face that bent over her, the gentle voice that asked to hear her tale--proved too much. she put up her toil-worn hands to her face and burst into such sobs as strong people give way to in agony. mrs. price beckoned to pickles to go away, and then, sitting down by sue's side, she waited until the overloaded heart should have become a little quieted; then she said: "and now, my dear, you will tell me the story." sue did tell it--told it all--mrs. price sitting by and holding her hands, and absolutely not speaking a single word. "you believes me, marm?" said sue at last. mrs. price looked in the girl's eyes and answered simply: "yes, poor lamb, i quite believe you. and now i am going to get you some supper." she made sue lie back in the easy-chair by the fire, and drawing out a little round table, laid a white cloth upon it. sue's mind, by this time partly relieved of its load, was able to take in its novel surroundings. the house might be very tall and very dirty, but this room at least was clean. floor, walls, furniture--all reflected a due and most judicious use of soap and water; and the woman moving about with gentle, deft fingers, arranging now this and now that, was quite different from any woman sue had ever seen before. she was a widow, and wore a widow's cap and a perfectly plain black dress, but she had a white handkerchief pinned neatly over her shoulders, so that she looked half-widow, half-nun. she was tall and slender, with very beautiful dark eyes. sue did not know whether to think her the very gravest person she had ever seen or the very brightest. her face was thoughtful and sweet; perhaps when in repose it was sad, but she never looked at a human being without a certain expression coming into her eyes which said louder and plainer than words, "i love you." this expression gave the hungry and poor who came in contact with her glance many a heart-thrill, and it is not too much to say they were seldom disappointed of the sympathy which the look in those dark and lovely eyes gave them reason to hope for. mrs. price now laid the tea-things, giving the poor little shorn and transformed cinderella sitting by the hearth so many expressive glances that she began to feel quite a heavenly peace stealing over her. "worn't jesus real good to bring me yere?" was her mental comment. she had scarcely made it before two young men came in. these young men were dressed in the uniform of the london fire brigade. they looked dusty, and the taller of the two was covered with smoke and dirt. "mother," he said as he tossed his helmet on the table. "i've been worked almost to death. you have supper ready, i hope." "yes, yes, my lad--a nice little piece of boiled pork, smoking hot, and pease-pudding and potatoes. i am glad you've brought george with you. he is kindly welcome, as he knows." "as he knows very well," answered george, with a smile. he touched the woman's shoulder for an instant with his big hand. then the two young men went into the next room to have a wash before supper. "william is coming on fine," said george, when they returned, looking at the other fireman--"though you did disobey orders, william, and are safe to get a reprimand.--fancy, mrs. price! this brave son of yours, returning from his day's drill, must needs see a fire and rush into it, all against orders--ay, and save a poor chap's life--before any one could prevent him." it may be as well to explain here that each man who wishes to join the metropolitan fire brigade must first have served some time at sea; also, before a man is allowed to attend a fire he must be thoroughly trained--in other words, he must attend drill. there's a drill class belonging to each station. it is under the charge of an instructor and two assistant instructors. each man, on appointment, joins this class, and learns the use of all the different appliances required for the extinction of fire. william price had not quite completed his eight weeks' drill. "yes, it was a ticklish piece of work," continued anderson. "the poor chap he rescued was surrounded by flames. then, too, the street was so narrow and the crowd so great that the whole matter is simply wonderful; but that policeman who kept order was a fine fellow." "why, it worn't never the fire as we come from jest now!" here burst from sue. "hush--hush, cinderella!" said pickles, who had come back, giving her a push under the table. "it 'ud be more suitable to yer present sitiwation ef yer didn't talk. in course it wor that same fire. why, it wor that deed o' bravery done by my own nearest o' kin as incited me to hact as i did by you." "whoever is the girl?" said price, noticing poor sue for the first time. "cinderella's the name of this 'ere misfortunate maiden," replied pickles; "an' yer ax no more questions, bill, an' yer'll get no stories told." "i must go, mrs. price," said anderson; "but i'll be back again as soon as possible." "tell me first, george," said the widow, "how your mother is." "i haven't been to see her for a few days, but she wrote to say that both the children who were rescued from the fire a few days back are doing fairly well. the boy was bad at first, but is now recovering." "ah! that was a brave deed," said price in a voice of the greatest admiration. "and did she tell you the names of the poor little critters?" "she did. connie was the name of one----" "connie?" cried sue, springing to her feet. "sit down, cinderella, and keep yourself quiet," cried pickles. george anderson gave the queer little girl who went by this name a puzzled glance. "yes," he said briefly, "connie was the name of one, and ronald the name of the other. i never saw a more beautiful little creature in all the world than connie." "that's _'er_!" broke from sue's irrepressible lips. chapter xix. a saintly lady. when so many strange things were happening, we may be sure that father john was not idle. he had hoped much from peter harris's knowledge of the byways and dens and alleys of westminster. but although peter was accompanied by the sharpest detectives that scotland yard could provide, not the slightest clue to connie's whereabouts could be obtained. the man was to meet more detectives again that same afternoon, and meanwhile a sudden gleam of hope darted through father john's brain. what a fool he had been not to think of it before! how glad he was now that he had insisted on getting the name and address of the brave fireman deliverer from connie on the previous night! he went straight now to the house in carlyle terrace. he stopped at no. . there he rang the bell and inquired if mrs. anderson were within. mrs. anderson was the last woman in the world to refuse to see any one, whether rich or poor, who called upon her. even impostors had a kindly greeting from this saintly lady; for, as she was fond of saying to herself, "if i can't give help, i can at least bestow pity." mrs. anderson was no fool, however, and she could generally read in their faces the true story of a man or woman who came to her. more often than not the story was a sad one, and the chance visitor was in need of help and sympathy. when this was not the case, she was able to explain very fully to the person who had called upon her what she thought of deceit and dishonest means of gaining a livelihood; and that person, as a rule, went away very much ashamed, and in some cases determined to turn over a new leaf. when this really happened mrs. anderson was the first to help to get the individual who had come to her into respectable employment. she was by no means rich, but nearly every penny of her money was spent on others; her own wants were of the simplest. the house she lived in belonged to her son, who, although a gentleman by birth, had long ago selected his profession--that of a fireman in the london fire brigade. he had a passion for his calling, and would not change it for the richest and most luxurious life in the world. now mrs. anderson came downstairs to interview father john. father john stood up, holding his hat in his hand. he always wore a black frock-coat; his hair hung long over his shoulders; his forehead was lofty; his expressive and marvelously beautiful gray eyes lit up his rugged and otherwise plain face. it was but to look at this man to know that he was absolutely impervious to flattery, and did not mind in the least what others thought about him. his very slight but perceptible deformity gave to his eyes that pathetic look which deformed people so often possess. the moment mrs. anderson entered the room she recognized him. "why," she said in a joyful tone, "is it true that i have the honor of speaking to the great street preacher?" "not great, madam," said father john--"quite a simple individual; but my blessed father in heaven has given me strength to deliver now and then a message to poor and sorrowful people." "sit down, won't you?" said mrs. anderson. father john did immediately take a chair. mrs. anderson did likewise. "now," said the widow, "what can i do for you?" "i will tell you, madam. her father and i are in great trouble about the child----" "what child?" asked mrs. anderson. "you surely don't mean little connie harris? i have been nervous at her not reappearing to-day. at her own express wish, she went to visit her father last night. i would have sent some one with her, but she wouldn't hear of it, assuring me that she had been about by herself in the london streets as long as she could remember; but she has not returned." "no, madam?" over father john's face there passed a quick emotion. then this last hope must be given up. "you have news of her?" said mrs. anderson. "i have, and very bad news." father john then related his story. "oh, why--why did i let her go?" said mrs. anderson. "don't blame yourself dear lady; the person to blame is the miserable father who would not receive his lost child when she returned to him." "oh, poor little girl!" said mrs. anderson. "such a sweet child, too, and so very beautiful!" "her beauty is her danger," said father john. "what do you mean?" "she told me her story, as doubtless she has told it to you." "she has," said mrs. anderson. "there is not the least doubt," continued the street preacher, "that that notorious thief, mrs. warren, used the child to attract people from herself when she was stealing their goods. mrs. warren is one of the most noted pickpockets in london. she has been captured, but i greatly fear that some other members of the gang have kidnapped the child once more." "what can be done?" said mrs. anderson. "i wish my son were here. i know he would help." "ah, madam," said father john, "how proud you must be of such a son! i think i would rather belong to his profession than any other in all the world--yes, i believe i would rather belong to it than to my own; for when you can rescue the body of a man from the cruel and tormenting flames, you have a rare chance of getting at his soul." "my son is a christian as well as a gentleman," said mrs. anderson. "he would feel with you in every word you have uttered, father john. i will send him a message and ask him if he can meet you here later on to-night." "i shall be very pleased to come; and i will if i can," said father john. "but," he added, "my time is scarcely ever my own--i am the servant of my people." "your congregation?" said mrs. anderson. "yes, madam; all sorts and conditions of men. i have no parish; still, i consider myself god's priest to deliver his message to sorrowful people who might not receive it from an ordained clergyman." mrs. anderson was silent. father john's eyes seemed to glow. he was looking back on many experiences. after a minute he said: "the consolation is this: 'he that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'" "how very strange that you should speak of that!" said mrs. anderson. "why so, madam? don't you believe it?" "oh, indeed i do! but i'll tell you why i think it strange. there is a little boy--the child who was also rescued from the fire--in my house. he was very ill at first; he is now better, but not well enough to leave his bedroom. i was anxious about him for a time, but he is, i thank god, recovering. now, this child went on murmuring that text during his delirium--a strange one to fall from the lips of so young a child." "indeed, yes, madam. i am most deeply interested. i am glad you have mentioned the little boy. connie told me about him last night. i am sorry that in my anxiety for her i forgot him." "you could never forget little ronald if you were to see him," said mrs. anderson. "i don't think i ever saw quite so sweet a child. his patience, his courage, and i think i ought to add his faith, are marvelous." "he cannot be nicer or better than a little boy of the name of giles who lives in a very poor attic near my own room," said the preacher. "i wonder," said mrs. anderson after a pause, "if you could spare time to come up and see little ronald with me." "i should be only too glad," said father john. so mrs. anderson took the preacher upstairs, and very softly opened the door, beyond which stood a screen. she entered, followed by the preacher, into a pretty room, which had lovely photographs hanging on the walls, that bore on childhood in different aspects. there was the summer child--the child of happiness--playing in the summer meadows, chasing butterflies and gathering flowers. and there also was the winter child--the child of extreme desolation--shivering on a doorstep in one of london's streets. there were other children, too--saintly children--st. agnes and her lamb, st. elizabeth, st. ursula; and, above all, there were photographs of the famous pictures of the child of all children, the child of bethlehem. the windows of the room were shaded by soft curtains of pale blue. a cheerful fire burned in the grate, and a child lay, half-sitting up, in a bed covered by a silken eider-down. the child looked quite content in his little bed, and a trained nurse who was in the room went softly out by another door as mrs. anderson and the preacher entered. "hasn't connie come back?" asked ronald. "no, dear," said mrs. anderson; "she's not able to do so just yet." "i want her," said ronald, suppressing a sigh. "i have brought this gentleman to see you, ronald." "what?" the boy cast a quick glance at the somewhat ungainly figure of father john. another disappointment--not the father he was waiting for. but the luminous eyes of the preacher seemed to pierce into the boy's soul. when he looked once, he looked again. when he looked twice, it seemed to him that he wanted to look forever. "i am glad," he said; and a smile broke over his little face. father john sat down at once by the bedside, and mrs. anderson went softly out of the room. "waiting for something, little man?" said the street preacher. "how can you tell?" asked ronald. "i see it in your eyes," said the preacher. "it's father," said ronald. "which father?" asked the preacher. "my own," said ronald--"my soldier father--the v. c. man, you know." "yes," said father john. "i want him," said ronald. "of course you do." "is he likely to come soon?" asked ronald. "if i could tell you that, ronald," said the street preacher, "i should be a wiser man than my father in heaven means me to be. there is only one person who can tell you when your earthly father will come." "you mean lord christ," said ronald. "i mean christ and our father in heaven." ronald shut his eyes for a minute. then he opened them. "i want my father," he said. "i'm sort o' starving for him." "well," said father john, "you have a father, you know--you have two fathers. if you can't get your earthly father down here, you're certain safe to get him up there. a boy with two fathers needn't feel starved about the heart, need he, now?" "i suppose not," said ronald. "he need not, of course," said father john. "i'll say a bit of a prayer for you to the heavenly father, and i know that sore feeling will go out of your heart. i know it, ronald; for he has promised to answer the prayers of those who trust in him. but now i want to talk to you about something else. i guess, somehow, that the next best person to your father to come to see you now is your little friend connie." "yes, yes!" said ronald. "i've missed her dreadful. mrs. anderson is sweet, and nurse charlotte very kind, and i'm beginning not to be quite so nervous about fire and smoke and danger. it's awful to be frightened. i'll have to tell my father when he comes back how bad i've been and how unlike him. but if i can't get him just now--and i'm not going to be unpatient--i want connie, 'cos she understands." "of course she understands," said the preacher. "i will try and get her for you." "but why can't she come back?" "she can't." "but why--why?" "that is another thing i can't tell you." "and i am not to be unpatient," said ronald. "you're to be patient--it's a big lesson--it mostly takes a lifetime to get it well learned. but somehow, when it is learned, then there's nothing else left to learn." ronald's eyes were so bright and so dark that the preacher felt he had said enough for the present. he bent down over the boy. "the god above bless thee, child," he said; "and if you have power and strength to say a little prayer for connie, do. she will come back when the heavenly father wills it. good-bye, ronald." chapter xx. caught again. when connie awoke the next morning, it was to see the ugly face of agnes bending over her. "stylites is to 'ome," she said briefly. "yer'd best look nippy and come into the kitchen and 'ave yer brekfus'." "oh!" said connie. "you'll admire stylites," continued agnes; "he's a wery fine man. now come along--but don't yer keep him waiting." connie had not undressed. agnes poured a little water into a cracked basin for her to wash her face and hands, and showed her a comb, by no means specially inviting, with which she could comb out her pretty hair. then, again enjoining her to "look slippy," she left the room. in the kitchen a big breakfast was going on. a quantity of bacon was frizzling in a pan over a great fire; and freckles, the boy who had let connie and agnes in the night before, was attending to it. two men with rough faces--one of them went by the name of corkscrew, and the other was known as nutmeg--were standing also within the region of the warm and generous fire. but the man on whom connie fixed her pretty eyes, when she softly opened the door and in all fear made her appearance, was of a totally different order of being. he was a tall man, quite young, not more than thirty years of age, and remarkably handsome. he had that curious combination of rather fair hair and very dark eyes and brows. his face was clean-shaven, and the features were refined and delicate without being in the least effeminate; for the cruel strength of the lower jaw and firmly shut lips showed at a glance that this man had a will of iron. his voice was exceedingly smooth and gentle, however, in intonation. when he saw connie he stepped up to her side and, giving her a gracious bow, said: "welcome to the kitchen, young lady." "it's stylites--bob yer curtsy," whispered agnes in connie's ear. so connie bobbed her curtsy. was this the man she was to be so dreadfully afraid of? her whole charming little face broke into a smile. "i'm so glad as you're stylites!" she said. the compliment, the absolutely unexpected words, the charm of the smile, had a visible effect upon the man. he looked again at connie as though he would read her through and through; then, taking her hand, he led her to the breakfast-table. "freckles," he said, "put a clean plate and knife on the table. that plate isn't fit for a young lady to eat off." freckles grinned from ear to ear, showing rows of yellow teeth. he rushed off to wash the plate in question, and returned with it hot and shining to lay again before connie's place. simeon stylites himself helped the little girl to the choicest pieces of bacon, to delicate slices of white bread, and to any other good things which were on the table. as he did this he did not speak once, but his eyes seemed to be everywhere. no one dared do a thing on the sly. the rough-looking men, corkscrew and nutmeg, were desired in a peremptory tone to take their mugs of tea to another table at the farther end of the great room. one of them ventured to grumble, and both cast angry glances at connie. stylites, however, said, "shut that!" and they were instantly mute as mice. the boy freckles also took his breakfast to the other table; but agnes sat boldly down, and pushing her ill-favored face forward, addressed simeon in familiar style: "i nabbed her--yer see." "shut that!" said stylites. agnes flushed an angry red, gave connie a vindictive look, but did not dare to utter another word. connie ate her breakfast with wonderful calm, and almost contentment. during the night which had passed she had gone through terrible dreams, in which simeon stylites had figured largely. he had appeared to her in those dreams as an ogre--a monster too awful to live. but here was a gracious gentleman, very goodly to look upon, very kind to her, although rude and even fierce to the rest of the party. "he'll let me go 'ome," thought connie; "he 'ave a kind 'eart." the meal came to an end. when it did so corkscrew came up and inquired if the young "amattur" were "goin' to 'ave her first lesson in perfessional work." "shut that!" said stylites again. "you go into cellar no. and attend to the silver, corkscrew.--nutmeg, you'll have the other jewelry to put in order this morning. is the furnace in proper order?" "yus, sir." "get off both of you and do your business. we're going out this evening." "when, sir?" "ten o'clock--sharp's the word." "on wot, sir?" "no. 's the job," said simeon stylites. "and wot am i to do?" said agnes. "stay indoors and mend your clothes." "in this room, sir?" "no; your bedroom." "please, simeon stylites, yer ain't thanked me yet for bringin' connie along." for answer stylites put his hand into his pocket, produced half-a-crown, and tossed it to agnes. "get into your room, and be quick about it," he said. "may i take connie along, please, sir?" "leave the girl alone. go!" agnes went. "come and sit in this warm chair by the fire, dear," said stylites. connie did so. the smile round her lips kept coming and going, going and coming. she was touched; she was soothed; she had not a scrap of fear; this great, strong, kind man would certainly save her. he was so different from dreadful mammy warren. "freckles," said the chief, "wash the breakfast things; put them in order; take them all into the pantry. when you have done, go out by the back door, being careful to put on the old man's disguise to-day. fasten the wig firmly on, and put a patch over your eye. here's five shillings; get food for the day, and be here by twelve o'clock sharp. now go." "yus, sir." freckles had an exceedingly cheerful manner. he knew very little fear. the strange life he led gave him a sort of wild pleasure. he winked at connie. "somethin' wery strange be goin' to 'appen," he said to himself. "a hamattur like this a-brought in by private horders, an' no perfessional lesson to be tuk." he thought how he himself would enjoy teaching this pretty child some of the tricks of the trade. oh, of course, she was absolutely invaluable. he didn't wonder that mammy had brought in such spoil when connie was there. but even freckles had to depart, and connie presently found herself alone with the chief. he stood by the hearth, looking taller and more exactly like a fine gentleman, and connie was more and more reassured about him. "please, sir----" she began. "stop!" he interrupted. "mayn't i speak, sir?" "no--not now. for god's sake don't plead with me; i can't stand that." "why, sir?" but connie, as she looked up, saw an expression about that mouth and that jaw which frightened her, and frightened her so badly that all the agony she had undergone in mammy warren's house seemed as nothing in comparison. the next minute, however, the cruel look had departed. simeon stylites drew a chair forward, dropped into it, bent low, and looked into connie's eyes. "allow me," he said; and he put his hand very gently under her chin, and raised her little face and looked at it. "who's your father?" he asked. "peter harris." "trade?" "blacksmith, sir." "where do you live?" "adam street, sir; and----" "hush! only answer my questions." stylites removed his hand from under the girl's chin, and connie felt a blush of pain sweeping over her face. "how long were you with that woman warren?" "dunno, sir." "what do you mean by answering me like that?" "can't 'elp it, sir. tuk a fright there--bad fire--can't remember, please, sir." "never mind; it doesn't matter. stand up; i want to look at your hair." connie did so. simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair between his slender fingers. he allowed it to ripple through them. he felt its weight and examined its quality. "sit down again," he said. "yus, sir." "you're exactly the young girl i want for my profession." "please, sir----" "hush!" "yus, sir." "i repeat--and i wish you to listen--that in my profession you would rise to eminence. you haven't an idea what it is like, have you?" "no--i mean i'm not sure----" "you had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for you to understand." "oh, sir." "not really necessary." connie looked up into the stern and very strange face. "but you miss a good deal," said stylites--"yes, a very great deal. tell me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered mrs. warren's establishment." "i did machine-work, sir." "i guessed as much--or perhaps coppenger told me. machine-work--attic work?--shop?" "yus, sir--in cheapside, sir--a workshop for cheap clothing, sir." "did you like it?" "no, sir." "i should think not. let me look at your hand." he took one of connie's hands and examined it carefully. "little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. they could be made very white, very soft and beautiful. have you ever considered what a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?" connie shook her head. "you'd know it if you stayed with me. i should dress you in silk and satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings and charming shoes." "to wear in this 'ere kitchen, sir?" "oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful house with other ladies and gentlemen. _you would_ like that, wouldn't you?" "yus, sir--ef i might 'ave ronald and giles and father and father john, and p'rhaps mrs. anderson and mr. george anderson, along o' me." "but in that beautiful house you wouldn't have mr. and mrs. anderson, nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children you've just mentioned. it's just possible you might have the boy ronald, but even that is problematical--you'd have to give up the rest." "then, sir," said connie, "i rayther not go, please." "do you think that matters?" said stylites. "wot, sir?" "that you'd rather not go?" "i dunno, sir." "it doesn't matter one whit. children who come here aren't asked what they'd rather or rather not do, girl--they've got to do what _i_ order." the voice came out, not loud, but sharp and incisive, as though a knife were cutting something. "yus, sir--yus, sir." "connie"--the man's whole tone altered--"what will you give me if i let you go?" "oh, sir----" "i want you to give me something very big, i've taken great trouble to secure you. you're the sort of little girl i want; you would be very useful to me. you have come in here--it is true you haven't the least idea where this house is--but you've come in, and you've seen me, and you've discovered the name which these low people call me. of course, you can understand that my real name is not simeon stylites--i have a very different name; and my home isn't here--i have a very different home. i would take you there, and treat you well, and afterwards perhaps send you to another home. you should never know want, and no one would be unkind to you. you would be as a daughter to me, and i am a lonely man." "oh, sir--sir!" said poor connie, "i--i like you, sir--i'm not afeered--no, not much afeered--but if you 'ud only let the others come----" "that i cannot do, girl. if you choose to belong to me you must give up the others." "_ef_ i choose, sir--may i choose?" "yes--on a condition." the man who called himself simeon stylites looked at the girl with a queer, hungry expression in his eyes. "i wanted you very badly indeed," he said; "and i was not in the least prepared to be sentimental. but i had a little sister like you. she died when she was rather younger than you. i loved her, and she loved me. i was quite a good man then, and a gentleman----" "oh, sir--ye're that now." "no, girl--i am not. there are things that a gentleman would do which i would _not_ do, and there are things which no gentleman would do which i do. i have passed the line; nevertheless, the outward tokens remain; and i live--well, child, i want for nothing. my profession is very lucrative--very." connie did not understand half the words of this strange, queer man, with a terribly stern and yet terribly pathetic voice. "when i saw you this morning," said stylites, "i knew at once it was no go. you were like the little eleanor whom alone in all the world i ever truly loved. you are too young to be told my story, or i would tell it to you." "oh, sir," said connie, "i'd real like to comfort yer." "you can't do that, and i won't spoil the life of any child with such a look of my little eleanor. i am going to give you back your liberty--on a condition." "wot's that?" said connie. "that you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. wild horses mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. i am willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of that chance likeness. but i won't have _my_ profession and _my_ chances in life imperilled. do you promise?" "sir, i'll niver,--niver tell." "you must promise more strongly than that--the others must be witnesses." "oh, sir--oh, sir! you must trust me. don't call the others in; let me promise to you, yer lone self, an' i will keep my word." the strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into connie's face. "i could have been good to you," he said, "and what i had to offer was not altogether contemptible. but it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with my memory of eleanor, who went back to god at eleven years of age, very pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'of such is the kingdom of heaven.' those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant part of the country. if you will follow in her steps, and be pure and good in heart and life, you may meet my eleanor in another world. and perhaps you may be able to tell her that i--a man given over to extreme wickedness--did one kind deed for her sake when i gave you back to your friends." "sir----" "not another word. i am a man of moods, and i might recant what i have just said." simeon stylites sounded a little gong on the table. agnes came hurriedly in. "fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively. agnes brought them. "be i to take her out, sir?" she said. "no. and listen. this child isn't for us; let her alone in future.--are you ready, connie?" "yus, sir." simeon stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of the house. as soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned the driver. he and connie got in. they went for a long drive, and stylites dismissed the hansom in a distant part of the town. "you wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl. "no, sir; an' ef i knew i wouldn't tell." "well, then--good-bye." "good-bye, sir." "yes, good-bye. walk down this street till you come to the end. here's a shilling--you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. from there go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of simeon stylites." chapter xxi. safe home at last. when harris parted from sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. he did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street. then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a rapid walk. he suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives, who were moving heaven and earth to get connie back for him, not later than three o'clock. they were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of rendezvous was quickly approaching. he got there in good time; but what was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives--ordinary-looking men in plain clothes--but also the street preacher? the street preacher came up to him eagerly. the detectives also followed close. "harris," said atkins, "you can thank god on your knees--your child is safe at home." "wot?" said harris. in that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. oh, what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! what a cowardly deed he had just committed! and yet god was kind, and had given him back his child. "connie is in your room, waiting for you," said atkins. "i went in not an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was." "it's very queer," said detective z. "you should have been there also, and have questioned the girl. there isn't the least doubt that she could give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word--not a word." "won't she, now?" said harris. "perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick enough, to her own father." the entire party then turned in the direction of harris's rooms. they went up the stairs, and harris flung the door wide. a little, slight girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which harris had bought for her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire. already her womanly influences had been at work. the fire burned brightly. the room was tidy. the girl herself was waiting--expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive face. "father!" she cried as harris--brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth--almost staggered into the room. he took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce, passionate kisses; then saying, "it is good to have yer back, wench," pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. he sank into a seat, trembling all over. the two detectives marked his agitation and were full of compassion for him. how deeply he loved his child, they felt. but father john read deeper below the surface. the man was in a very queer state. had anything happened? he knew harris well. at such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so overcome. the detectives began to question connie. "we want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said constable z. "who dragged you into that court last night?" "i won't say," answered connie. "you won't say? but you know." "i won't say nothing," said connie. "that is blamed nonsense!" cried harris, suddenly rousing himself. "yer've got to say--yer've got to make a clean breast of it. wot's up? speak!" "i wouldn't be here, father," said connie, "'ef i'd not promised most faithfully not _iver_ to tell, and i won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to anybody in all the world." there was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice. "i wouldn't do it for nobody," continued connie. she drew herself up, and looked taller; her eyes were shining. the detectives glanced at each other. "if you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to break that promise o' yourn, whoever you made it to, or you'ud know what contempt of the law meant." "but i am not in the witness-box," said connie, her tone suddenly becoming gay. "it was awful kind of people to look for me, but they might ha' looked for ever and niver found me again. i'm 'ere now quite safe, and nothing 'as 'appened at all, and i'm niver goin' to tell. please, father john, _you_ won't ask me?" "no, my child," said father john. "you have made a promise, perhaps a rash one, but i should be the last to counsel you to break it." nothing more could be gained from connie at present; and by-and-by father john and the two detectives left her alone with harris. when the door closed behind the three men a timid expression came into connie's gentle eyes. beyond doubt her father was sober, but he looked very queer--fearfully red in the face, nervous, trembling, bad in his temper. connie had seen him in many moods, but this particular mood she had never witnessed in him before. he must really love her. he knew nothing about that terrible time last night when he had turned her away. then he did not know what he was doing. connie was the last to bear him malice for what--like many other little girls of her class--she considered he could not help. most of the children in the courts and streets around had fathers who drank. it seemed to connie and to the other children that this was a necessary part of fathers--that they all took what was not good for them, and were exceedingly unpleasant under its influence. she stood now by the window, and harris sank into a chair. then he got up restlessly. "i be goin' out for a bit, lass," he said. "you stay 'ere." "oh, please, father," said connie, "ef you be goin' out, may i go 'long and pay giles a wisit? i want so much to have a real good talk with him." when connie mentioned the word giles, harris gave quite a perceptible start. something very like an oath came from his lips; then he crushed back his emotion. "hall right," he said; "but don't stay too long there. and plait up that 'air o' yourn, and put it tight round yer 'ead; i don't want no more kidnappin' o' my wench." there was a slight break in the rough man's voice, and connie's little sensitive heart throbbed to the tone of love. a minute later harris had gone out, and connie, perceiving that it was past four o'clock, and that it would not be so very long before sue was back from cheapside, prepared to set off in quite gay spirits to see little giles. she went into her tiny bedroom. it was a very shabby room, nothing like as well furnished as the one she had occupied at mammy warren's. but oh, how glad she was to be back again! how sweet the homely furniture looked! how dear was that cracked and handleless jug! how nice to behold again the wooden box in which she kept her clothes! the little girl now quickly plaited her long, thick hair, arranged it tightly round her head, and putting on a shabby frock and jacket, and laying the dark blue, which had seen such evil days, in the little trunk, she hastily left the room. she was not long in making her appearance in giles's very humble attic. her heart beat as she mounted the well-worn stairs. how often--oh, how often she had though of giles and sue! how she had longed for them! the next minute she had burst into the room where the boy was lying, as usual, flat on his back. "giles," she said, "i've come back." "connie!" answered giles. he turned quickly to look at her. his face turned first red, then very pale; but the next minute he held up his hand to restrain further words. "don't say anything for half a minute, connie, for 'e's goin' to speak." "big ben? oh!" said connie. she remembered what big ben had been to her and to ronald in mammy warren's dreadful rooms. she too listened, half-arrested in her progress across the room. then, above the din and roar of london, the sweet chimes pealed, and the hour of five o'clock was solemnly proclaimed. "there!" said giles. "did yer 'ear wot he said now?" "tell us--do tell us!" said connie. "'the peace of god which passeth all understanding.'" said giles. "ain't it fine?" "oh yus," said connie--"yus! giles--little giles--'ow i ha' missed yer! oh giles, giles! this is the peace o' god come back to me again." giles did not answer, and connie had time to watch him. it was some weeks now since she had seen him--weeks so full of events that they were like a lifetime to the child; and in those weeks a change had come over little giles. that pure, small, angel face of his looked smaller, thinner, and more angelic than ever. it seemed as if a breath might blow him away. his sweet voice itself was thin and weak. "i did miss yer, connie," he said at last. "but then, i were never frightened; sue were--over and over." "and w'y weren't yer frightened, giles?" said connie. "you 'ad a reason to be, if yer did but know." "i did know," said giles, "and that were why i didn't fret. i knew as you were safe--i knew for sartin sure that big ben 'ud talk to yer--_'e'd_ bring yer a message, same as 'e brings to me." "oh--he did--he did!" said connie. "i might ha' guessed that you'd think that, for the message were so wery strong. it were indeed as though a woice uttered the words. but oh, giles--i 'ave a lot to tell yer!" "well," said giles, "and i am ready to listen. poke up the fire a bit, and then set near me. yer must stop talking _w'en 'e_ speaks, but otherwise you talk and i listen." "afore i do anything," said connie--"'ave you 'ad your tea?" "no. i didn't want it. i'll 'ave it w'en sue comes 'ome." "poor sue!" said connie. "i'm that longin' to see her! i 'ope she won't be hangry." "oh, no," said giles. "we're both on us too glad to be angry. we missed yer sore, both on us." while giles was speaking connie had put on the kettle to boil. she had soon made a cup of tea, which she brought to the boy, who, although he had said he did not want it, drank it off with dry and thirsty lips. "dear connie!" he said when he gave her the cup to put down. "now you're better," said connie, "and i'll speak." she began to tell her story, which quickly absorbed giles, bringing color into his cheeks and brightness into his eyes, so that he looked by no means so frail and ill as he had done when connie first saw him. she cheered up when she noticed this, and reflected that doubtless giles was no worse. it was only because she had not seen him for so long that she was really frightened. when her story was finished giles spoke: "you're back, and you're safe--and it were the good lord as did it. yer'll tell me 'bout the fire over agin another day; and yer'll tell me 'bout that little ronald, wot 'ave so brave a father, another day. but i'm tired now a bit. it's wonnerful, all the same, wot brave fathers do for their children. w'en i think o' mine, an' wot 'e wor, an' 'ow 'e died, givin' up his life for others, i'm that proud o' him, an' comforted by him, an' rejoiced to think as i'll see 'im agin, as is almost past talkin' on. but there! you'd best go 'ome now; you're quite safe, for 'e wot gives big ben 'is message 'ull regard yer." "but why mayn't i wait for sue?" said connie. "no," said giles in a faint tone; "i'm too tired--i'm sort o' done up, connie--an' i can't listen, even to dear sue axin' yer dozens and dozens o' questions. you go 'ome now, an' come back ef yer like later on, w'en sue 'ull be 'ome and i'll ha' broke the news to her. she knows she must be very quiet in the room with me, connie." so connie agreed to this; first of all, however, placing a glass with a little milk in it by giles's side. she then returned to her own room, hoping that she might find her father there before her. he was not there; his place was empty. connie, however, was not alarmed, only it had struck her with a pang that if he really loved her half as much as she loved him he would have come on that first evening after her return. she spent a little time examining the room and putting it into ship-shape order, and then suddenly remembered that she herself was both faint and hungry. she set the kettle on, therefore, to boil, and made herself some tea. there was a hunch of bread and a piece of cold bacon in the great cupboard, which in connie's time was generally stored with provisions. she said to herself: "i must ax father for money to buy wittles w'en he comes in." and then she made a meal off some of the bacon and bread, and drank the sugarless and milkless tea as though it were nectar. she felt very tired from all she had undergone; and as the time sped by, and big ben proclaimed the hours of seven, eight, and nine, she resolved to wait no longer for her father. she hoped indeed, he would not be tipsy to-night but she resolved if such were the case, and he again refused to receive her, to go to mrs. anderson and beg for a night's lodging. first of all, however, she would visit giles and sue. giles would have told sue the most exciting part of the story, and sue would be calm and practical and matter-of-fact; but of course, at the same time, very, very glad to see her. connie thought how lovely it would be to get one of sue's hearty smacks on her cheek, and to hear sue's confident voice saying: "you _were_ a silly. well, now ye're safe 'ome, you'll see as yer stays there." connie thought no words would be quite so cheerful and stimulating to hear as those matter-of-fact words of sue's. she soon reached the attic. she opened the door softly, and yet with a flutter at her heart. "sue," she said. but there was no sue in the room; only giles, whose face was very, very white, and whose gentle eyes were full of distress. "come right over 'ere, connie," he said. she went and knelt by him. "ye're not well," she said. "wot ails yer?" "sue ain't come 'ome," he answered--"neither sue nor any tidin's of her. no, i ain't frightened, but i'm--i'm lonesome, like." "in course ye're not frightened," said connie, who, in the new _rôle_ of comforter for giles, forgot herself. "i'll set with yer," she said, "till sue comes 'ome. w'y, giles, anythink might ha' kep' her." "no," said giles, "not anythink, for she were comin' 'ome earlier than usual to-night, an' we was to plan out 'ow best to get me a new night-shirt, an' sue herself were goin' to 'ave a evenin' patchin' her old brown frock. she were comin' 'ome--she 'ad made me a promise; nothin' in all the world would make her break it--that is, _ef_ she could 'elp herself." "well, i s'pose she couldn't 'elp herself," said connie. "it's jest this way. they keep her in over hours--they often do that at cheadle's." "they 'aven't kep' 'er in to-night," said giles. "then wot 'ave come to her?" "i dunno; only big ben----" "giles dear, wot _do_ yer mean?" "i know," said giles, with a catch in his voice, "as that blessed woice comforts me; but there! i must take the rough with the smooth. 'e said w'en last 'e spoke, 'in all their affliction 'e were afflicted.' there now! why did those words sound through the room unless there _is_ trouble about sue?" connie argued and talked, and tried to cheer the poor little fellow. she saw, however, that he was painfully weak, and when ten o'clock struck from the great clock, and the boy--his nerves now all on edge--caught connie's hand, and buried his face against it, murmuring, "the woice has said them words agin," she thought it quite time to fetch a doctor. "you mustn't go on like this, giles," she said, "or yer'll be real ill. i'm goin' away, and i'll be back in a minute or two." she ran downstairs, found a certain mrs. nelson who knew both sue and giles very well, described the state of the child, and begged of mrs. nelson to get the doctor in. "wull, now," said that good woman, "ef that ain't wonnerful! why, dr. deane is in the 'ouse this very blessed minute attending on hannah blake, wot broke her leg. i'll send him straight up to giles, connie, ef yer'll wait there till he comes. lor, now!" continued mrs. nelson, "w'y hever should sue be so late--and this night, of all nights?" connie, very glad to feel that the doctor was within reach, returned to the boy, who now lay with closed eyes, breathing fast. dr. deane was a remarkably kind young man. he knew the sorrows of the poor, and they all loved him, and when he saw giles he bent down over the little fellow and made a careful examination. he then cheered up the boy as best he could, and told him that he would send him a strengthening medicine, also a bottle of port-wine, of which he was to drink some at intervals, and other articles of food. "wen 'ull sue come back?" asked giles of the doctor. "can't tell you that, my dear boy. your sister may walk in at any minute, but i am sure this little friend will stay with you for the night." "yus, if i may let father know," said connie. "you mustn't fret, giles; that would be very wrong," said the doctor. he then motioned connie on to the landing outside. "the boy is ill," he said, "and terribly weak--he is half-starved. that poor, brave little sister of his does what she can for him, but it is impossible for her to earn sufficient money to give him the food he requires. i am exceedingly sorry for the boy, and will send him over a basket of good things." "but," said connie, her voice trembling, "is he wery, wery ill?" "yes," said the doctor--"so ill that he'll soon be better. in his case, that is the best sort of illness, is it not? oh, my child, don't cry!" "do yer mean that giles is goin'--goin' right aw'y?" whispered connie. "right away--and before very long. it's the very best thing that could happen to him. if he lived he would suffer all his life. he won't suffer any more soon. now go back to him, and cheer him all you can." connie did go back. where had she learnt such wonderful self-control--she who, until all her recent trials, had been rather a selfish little girl, thinking a good deal of her pretty face and beautiful hair, and rebelling when trouble came to her? she had chosen her own way, and very terrible trials had been hers in consequence. she had learned a lesson, partly from ronald, partly from big ben, partly from the words of her little giles, whom she had loved all her life. for giles's sake she would not give way now. "set you down, connie--right here," said giles. she sat down, and he looked at her. "wot do doctor say?" said giles. "oh, that ye're a bit weakly, giles. he's goin' to send yer a basket o' good wittles." giles smiled. then he held out his shadowy little hand and touched connie. "niver mind," he said softly; "i know wot doctor said." a heavenly smile flitted over his face, and he closed his eyes. "it won't be jest yet," he said. "there'll be plenty o' time. connie, wull yer sing to me?" "yus," said connie, swallowing a lump in her throat. "sing ''ere we suffer.'" connie began. how full and rich her voice had grown! she remembered that time when, out in the snow, she had sung--little ronald keeping her company: "here we suffer grief and pain, here we meet to part again, in heaven we part no more. oh! that will be joyful, when we meet to part no more." the words of the hymn were sung to the very end, giles listening in an ecstasy of happiness. "now, 'happy land,'" he said. connie sang: "there is a happy land, far, far away, where saints in glory stand, bright, bright as day." the second hymn was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought a bottle of medicine and a large basket. the contents of the basket were laid on the table--a little crisp loaf of new bread, a pat of fresh butter, half a pound of tea, a small can of milk, a pound of sugar, half-a-dozen new-laid eggs, and a chicken roasted whole, also a bottle of port-wine. "now then," said connie, "look, giles--look!" the messenger took away the basket. even giles was roused to the semblance of appetite by the sight of the tempting food. connie quickly made tea, boiled an egg, and brought them with fresh bread-and-butter to the child. he ate a little; then he looked up at her. "you must eat, too, connie. why, you _be_ white and tired!" connie did not refuse. she made a small meal, and then, opening the bottle of wine with a little corkscrew which had also been sent, kept the precious liquid in readiness to give to giles should he feel faint. eleven o'clock rang out in big ben's great and solemn voice. connie was very much startled when she heard the great notes; but, to her surprise, giles did not take any notice. he lay happy, with an expression on his face which showed that his thoughts were far away. "connie," he said after a minute, "be yer really meanin' to spend the night with me?" "oh yus," said connie, "ef yer'll 'ave me." "you've to think of your father, connie--he may come back. he may miss yer. yer ought to go back and see him, and leave him a message." "i were thinking that," said connie; "and i won't be long. i'll come straight over here the very minute i can, and ef sue has returned----" "sue won't come back--not yet," said giles. "why, giles--how do you know?" "jesus christ told me jest now through the woice o' big ben," said the boy. "oh giles--wot?" "'e said, 'castin' all your care on god, for he careth for you.' i ha' done it, and i'm not frettin' no more. sue's all right; god's a-takin' care of her. i don't fret for sue now, no more than i fretted for you. but run along and tell your father, and come back." connie went. at this hour of night the slums of westminster are not the nicest place in the world for so pretty a girl to be out. connie, too, was known by several people, and although in her old clothes, and with her hair fastened round her head, she did not look nearly so striking as when mammy warren had used her as a decoy-duck in order to pursue her pickpocket propensities, yet still her little face was altogether on a different plane from the ordinary slum children. "w'y, connie," said a rough woman, "come along into my den an' tell us yer story." "is it connie harris?" screamed another. "w'y, gel, w'ere hever were yer hall this time? a nice hue and cry yer made! stop 'ere this minute and tell us w'ere yer ha' been." "i can't," said connie. "giles is bad, and sue ain't come 'ome. i want jest to see father, and then to go back to giles. don't keep me, neighbors." now, these rough people--the roughest and the worst, perhaps, in the land--had some gleams of good in them; and little giles was a person whom every one had a soft word for. "a pore little cripple!" said the woman who had first spoken.--"get you along at once, connie; he's in." "i be sorry as the cripple's bad, and sue not returned," cried another. "i 'ope sue's not kidnapped too. it's awful w'en folks come to kidnappin' one's kids." while the women were talking connie made her escape, and soon entered her father's room. she gave a start at once of pleasure and apprehension when she saw him there. was he drunk? would he again turn her out into the street? she didn't know--she feared. peter harris, however, was sober. that had happened in one short day which, it seemed to him, made it quite impossible for him ever to drink again. he looked at connie with a strange nervousness. "wull," he said, "you _be_ late! and 'ow's giles?" he did not dare to ask for sue. his hope--for he had a hope--was that sue had come back without ever discovering the locket which he had transferred to her pocket. in that case he might somehow manage to get it away again without her knowing anything whatever with regard to his vile conduct. if god was good enough for that, why, then indeed he was a good god, and harris would follow him to his dying day. he would go to the preacher and tell him that henceforth he meant to be a religious, church-going man, and that never again would a drop of drink pass his lips. he had spent an afternoon and evening in the most frightful remorse, but up to the present he had not the most remote intention of saving sue at his own expense. if only she had escaped unsuspected, then indeed he would be good; but if it were otherwise he felt that the very devils of hell might enter into his heart. "'ow's giles? 'ow did he take yer comin' 'ome again, wench?" "oh father," said connie, panting slightly, and causing the man to gaze at her with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, "giles is wery, wery bad--i 'ad to send for the doctor. 'e come, and 'e said--ah! 'e said as 'ow little giles 'ud soon be leavin' us. i can't--can't speak on it!" connie sat down and covered her face with her hands. harris drew a breath at once of relief and suspicion. he was sorry, of course, for little giles; but then, the kid couldn't live, and he had nothing to do with his death. it was sue he was thinking about. of course sue was there, or connie would have mentioned the fact of her not having returned home. connie wept on, overcome by the strange emotions and experiences through which she had so lately passed. "connie," said her father at last, when he could bear the suspense no longer, "sue must be in great takin'--poor sue!" "but, father," said connie, suddenly suppressing her tears, "that's the most dreadful part of all--sue ain't there!" "not there? not to 'ome?" thundered harris. "no, father--she ha' niver come back. it's goin' on for twelve o'clock--an' giles expected her soon arter six! she ain't come back, 'ave sue. wottever is to be done, father?" harris walked to the fire and poked it into a fierce blaze. then he turned his back on connie, and began to fumble with his neck-tie, tightening it and putting it in order. "father," said connie. "wull?" "wot are we to do 'bout sue?" "she'll be back come mornin'." "father," said connie again, "may i go and spend the night 'long o' giles? he's too weakly to be left." "no," said harris; "i won't leave yer out o' my sight. ef there's kidnappin' about an' it looks uncommon like it--you stay safe within these four walls." "but giles--giles?" said connie. "i'll fetch giles 'ere." "father! so late?" "yus--why not? ef there's kidnappin' about, there's niver any sayin' w'en sue may be back. i'll go and fetch him now, and you can get that sofy ready for him; he can sleep on it. there--i'm off! sue--god knows wot's come o' sue; but giles, e' sha'n't want." harris opened the door, went out, and shut it again with a bang. connie waited within the room. she was trembling with a strange mixture of fear and joy. how strange her father was--and yet he was good too! he was not drunk to-night. that was wonderful. it was sweet of him to think of bringing giles to connie's home, where connie could look after him and give him the best food, and perhaps save his life. children as inexperienced as connie are apt to take a cheerful view even when things are at their lowest. connie instantly imagined that giles in his new and far more luxurious surroundings would quickly recover. she began eagerly to prepare a place for him. she dragged a mattress from her own bed, and managed to put it on the sofa; then she unlocked a trunk which always stood in the sitting-room; she knew where to find the key. this trunk had belonged to her mother, and contained some of that mother's clothing, and also other things. connie selected from its depths a pair of thin and very fine linen sheets. these she aired by the fire, and laid them over the mattress when they were quite warm. there was a blanket, white and light and very warm, which was also placed over the linen sheets; and a down pillow was found which connie covered with a frilled pillow-case; and finally she took out the most precious thing of all--a large crimson and gold shawl, made of fine, fine silk, which her mother used to wear, and which connie dimly remembered as thinking too beautiful for this world. but nothing was too beautiful for little giles; and the couch with its crimson covering was all ready for him when harris reappeared, bearing the boy in his arms. "i kivered him up with his own blanket," he said, turning to connie. "ain't that sofy comfor'ble to look at? you lie on the sofa, sonny, an' then yer'll know wot it be to be well tended." little giles was placed there, and connie prepared a hot bottle to put to his feet, while harris returned to the empty room to fetch away the medicine and get the things which dr. deane had ordered. he left a message, too, with mrs. nelson, telling her what had become of the boy, and asking dr. deane to call at his house in the future. "you be a good man," said mrs. nelson in a tone of great admiration. "my word, now! and ain't it lucky for the kid? you be a man o' money, mr. harris--he'll want for nothing with you." "he'll want for nothing no more to the longest day he lives," answered harris. "ah, sir," said mrs. nelson, "he--he won't live long; he'll want for nothing any more, sir, in the paradise of god." "shut up!" said harris roughly. "ye're all with yer grumblin's and moans jest like other women." "and what message am i to give to sue--poor girl--when she comes 'ome?" called mrs. nelson after him. but harris made no reply to this; only his steps rang out hard and firm and cruel on the frosty ground. chapter xxii. news of sue. the next morning, when connie awoke, she remembered all the dreadful things that had happened. she was home again. that strange, mysterious man, simeon stylites, had let her go. how awful would have been her fate but for him! "he were a wery kind man," thought connie. "and now i must try to forget him. i must never mention his name, nor think of him no more for ever. that's the way i can serve him best--pore mr. simeon! he had a very genteel face, and w'en he spoke about his little sister it were real touching. but i mustn't think of him, for, ef i do, some day i might let his name slip, an' that 'ud do him a hurt." connie's thoughts, therefore, quickly left simeon stylites, agnes coppenger, freckles, nutmeg, and corkscrew, and returned to the exciting fact that sue was now missing, and that giles was under her own father's roof. she sprang out of bed, and quickly dressing herself, entered the general sitting-room. she was surprised to find that her father had taken his breakfast and had gone; that giles was sitting up, looking very pretty, with his little head against the white pillow, and the crimson and gold shawl covering his couch. "why, connie," he said, the minute he saw her, "wot a silly chap i wor yesterday! it's all as plain now as plain can be--i know everything now." "wottever do you mean?" said connie. "but don't talk too much, giles, till i ha' got yer yer breakfast." "bless yer!" said giles, with a weak laugh, "i ha' had my breakfast an hour and a half ago--yer father guv it to me. he be a wery kind man." "my father guv you your breakfast?" said connie. she felt that wonders would never cease. never before had harris been known to think of any one but himself. "set down by me, connie; you can't do naught for your breakfast until the kettle boils. i'll tell yer now w'ere sue is." "where?" asked connie. "oh giles! have yer heard of her?" "course i 'ave--i mean, it's all as clear as clear can be. it's only that sue 'ave more money than she told me 'bout, and that she's a-tryin' to give me my 'eart's desire." "your 'eart's desire, giles?" "yus--her an' me 'ave always 'ad our dream; and dear sue--she's a-makin' it come to pass, that's all. it's as plain as plain can be. she's a-gone to the country." "to the country? oh no, giles; i don't think so. wottever 'ud take her to the country at this time o' year?" "it's there she be," said giles. "she knew as i wanted dreadful to 'ear wot it were like, an' she 'ave gone. oh connie, you went to the country; but she didn't guess that. she ha' gone--dear sue 'ave--to find out all for herself; an' she thought it 'ud be a rare bit of a s'prise for me. i must make the most of it w'en i see her, and ax her about the flowers and everything. she's sartin to be back to-day. maybe, too, she could get work at plain sewin' in the country; an' she an' me could live in a little cottage, an' see the sun in the sky, and 'ear the birds a singin'. it's a'most like 'eaven to think of the country--ain't it, connie?" "yus," said connie, "the country's beautiful; but wicked people come out o' lunnon to it, an' then it's sad. an' there's no flowers a-growin' in the fields and 'edges in the winter, giles--an' there's no birds a-singin'." "oh! but that 'ull come back," said giles. "you can eat yer breakfast now, connie, an' then arter that we'll talk more about the country. you _ain't_ goin' to work to-day--be you, connie?" "oh no," said connie; "i ha' lost that place, an' i dunno w'ere to find another. but there's no hurry," she added, "and i like best now to be along o' you." connie then ate her breakfast, and giles lay with his eyes closed and a smile of contentment on his face. in the course of the morning there came an unlooked-for visitor. a funny-looking, red-haired boy entered the room. seeing giles asleep, he held up his finger warningly to connie, and stealing on tiptoe until he got opposite to her, he sat down on the floor. "wull, an' wottever do yer want?" asked connie. "hush!" said the red-haired boy. he pointed to giles. this action on the part of a total stranger seemed so absurd to connie that she burst out laughing. the red-haired boy never smiled. he continued to fix his round, light-blue eyes on her face with imperturbable gravity. "wull," he exclaimed under his breath, "ef she ain't more of a cinderella than t' other! oh, wouldn't the prince give _her_ the glass slipper! poor, poor cinderella at 'ome! _you've_ no chance now. ain't she jest lovely! i call her hangelic! my word! i could stare at that 'ere beauteous face for hiver." as these thoughts crept up to the fertile brain of pickles his lips moved and he nodded his head, so that connie really began to think he was bewitched. "wottever do you want?" she whispered; and, fortunately for them both, at that juncture giles stirred and opened his eyes. "that's right!" cried pickles. "now i can let off the safety-valve!" he gave a sigh of relief. "whoever's he?" asked giles, looking from the red-faced boy to connie. but before she had time to reply, pickles sprang to his feet, made a somersault up and down the room, then stood with his arms akimbo just in front of giles. "i'm glad as you hintroduced the word 'he,' young un; hotherwise, from the looks of yer both, you seems to liken me to a monster. yer want to know who's _he_? he's a boy--a full-grown human boy--something like yerself, only not so flabby by a long chalk." "but wot did you want? and wot's yer name, boy?" said connie, who could not help laughing again. "ah!" said pickles, "now ye're comin' to the p'int o' bein' sensible, young 'oman. i thought at first you could only drop hangelic speeches, an' that you 'ailed from the hangel spheres; but now i see ye're a gel--oh, quite the very purtiest i hiver laid heyes on. now, as i've spoke my true mind, i'll hanswer yer questions in a discreet an' pious manner. my name is pickles--pickles, at yer sarvice." "i never heered such a name in all my life," said connie. "wery like not. i were christened by the proper name o' james; but no james as ever walked 'ud hold me--it didn't fit no w'y; an' pickles did. so pickles i am, an' pickles i'll be to the end o' the chapter. now, as to wot i wants--w'y; i wants a talk with that mealy-faced chap wot looks as if i'd heat him up alive." "no, i don't," said giles. "i were only thinking as you 'ad the wery reddest 'air i iver see'd in my life." "personal remarks air considered ill-mannered, young man. and let me tell yer as my hair's my special glory. but now to business. you can't know, i guess, wot i wants yer for." "no, i can't," said giles. "that's rum; and i to tike the trouble not only to wisit yer own most respectable mansion, but to foller yer 'ere in the true sperrit of kindness." "ye're wery good; but i can't guess wot ye're up to," answered giles. "dear, dear! the silliness o' folks! now, w'en a stranger seeks yer hout, isn't it safe to s'pose as he brings news?" "wull, yes." "next clue--shall i 'elp yer a bit? you 'asn't, so to speak, lost something lately--thimble, or a pair of scissors, or something o' that sort?" "oh, it's sue! it's my darling sue;" exclaimed giles, a light breaking all over his face. "'as yer brought news of sue, boy?" "be sue a thimble, scissors, or a gel?" "oh! a gel, in course--my own dear, dear, only sister." "a little, fat, podgy kind o' woman-gel, wid a fine crop o' freckles and sandy hair?" "yes, yes; that's she. i have bin waiting fur her hall night. where is she? please, please, pickles, where is she?" "well, can't yer guess? where 'ud she be likely ter be? she worn't a wandering sort o' gel, as neglected her home duties, wor she?" "oh no! she never stayed out in hall her life afore." "she worn't, so to speak, a gel as wor given to pilfer, and might be tuk to cool herself in the lock-up." "never--never! sue 'ud sooner die than take wot worn't her own; and i wish i wor strong enough to punch yer head fur thinkin' sech a thing," said giles, his face now crimson with indignation. "well, softly, softly, young un; i didn't say as she _did_ pilfer. i think that 'ere podgy gel as honest as the day. but now, can't yer guess where she his?" "oh yes! i can guess wery well," answered giles, his face softening down. "i guessed long ago--didn't i, connie?" "well, now, wot hever did yer guess?" asked pickles, in some amazement. "oh! there wor but one thing to guess. there were one dream as sue and i were halways dreaming, and she have gone off widout me at last, to see wot it wor like. she'll be back hany moment, arter she have seen and found hout hall she could. sue have gone to the country, pickles." "oh, my heyes! to the country!" exclaimed pickles. his face grew crimson, and he was obliged to leave his seat and walk to the window, where he remained with his back to the others for nearly a minute, and where he indulged in some smothered mirth. when he turned round, however, he was as grave as a judge. "you _are_ clever," he said to giles. "i'm right, ain't i?" asked giles. "in course; you're always as right as a trivet." "oh, i'm so glad! and does she find it wery beautiful?" "scrumptious! fairy-like! scrumptious!" "oh, how happy i am! and when 'ull she be back?" "well, that's the part as may moderate your raptures; she can't exactly tell when. she sent me to tell yer as she don't exactly know. it may be to-morrow; or, agen, it mayn't be fur a week, or even more. she's hever so sorry, and she sends yer a whole pocketful o' love, but she can't tell when she'll get back." "but what is she stayin fur?" "oh! my heyes! wot is she staying fur? you wants ter live in a cottage in the country, don't yer?" "why, yes, that's hour dream." "well, ha'n't she to find hout wot the price o' them are? ha'n't she, stoo-pid?" "i s'pose so. is that what she's staying fur?" pickles nodded. "you don't never tell no lies, do you, boy?" "i! wot do yer take me fur? you can b'lieve me or not as yer pleases." "oh! i do b'lieve yer. will yer take a message back to sue?" "why, in course." "tell her to have two rooms in the cottage, and plenty o' flowers hall round, and a big winder where i can look hout at the stars when i can't sleep o' nights." "yes, i'll tell her faithful. hanythink else?" "tell her as i love to think as she's in the country, but to come back as fast as she can; and give--give her my wery best love. and you wouldn't like to give her a kiss fur me?" "oh! my heye! yere's a rum go. fancy me a-kissing cind--i means sue. no, young un, i hasn't the wery least hobjection in life. i'll give her two resounding smacks the wery minute as i sees her. lor'! it will be fine fun. now, good-bye. i'll come and see yer soon agen.--good-bye, my beauty. i only wishes as it wor _you_ i wor axed ter kiss.--good-bye, giles. i'll remember wot yer said 'bout that 'ere cottage." "be sure as the winders is big enough fur me to see the stars," called out giles after him. chapter xxiii. amateur detective. mrs. price had been blessed by nature with two sons, each as different in manners, disposition, appearance, and tastes as the poles. william, aged twenty, was dark, quiet-looking, with a grave and kind face. in disposition he was as fine a fellow as ever breathed, thoughtful for others, good to all, doing his duty because he loved and feared both god and his mother. he was very reserved, and seldom spoke, but when he did give utterance to his thoughts they were to the point and worth listening to. mrs. price was often heard to say that the mere presence of her elder son in the room gave her a sense of repose, that she felt that she had some one to lean on--which in truth she had. james, her second and younger son, had not one of his brother's characteristics; he had no gentle courtesies, no quiet ways. except when asleep, he was never known to be still for a moment. one glance at his fiery head, at his comical face, would show plainly that he was a very imp of mischief. he was kind-hearted--he would not willingly injure the smallest living thing--but his wild, ungovernable spirit, his sense of the ludicrous in all and every circumstance, made him sometimes do unintentional harm, and his mother had some difficulty in getting him out of the scrapes into which he was always putting himself. no work he had ever done had so delighted the boyish heart of james price, _alias_ pickles, as the capture of sue from the hands of the police. the whole story had a certain flavor about it which would be sure to captivate such a nature as his. sue was innocent; he was quite certain of that. but then, as certainly some one else was guilty. here, then, was a work after his own heart; he would find out who the guilty party was. he had a great deal of the detective about him; indeed, he had almost resolved to join that body when he was grown-up. he had brought sue to his mother; and his mother, too, believing in the girl's innocence, was yet much puzzled how to advise her or what to do with her. sue, being thoroughly drilled and frightened into such a course by pickles, had declared that nothing would induce her to go home; for that if she did she would certainly be taken to prison, and found guilty of a crime of which she was quite innocent. mrs. price, too, felt that she could not counsel sue to go back, though the agony of the poor girl, when she thought of giles waiting and longing for her, was sad to witness. to comfort her a little, pickles went to see giles, being warned by sue on no account to tell him the truth, which would, she said, absolutely and at once break his heart. pickles, winking profoundly, told her to leave it to him. he went, and giles himself supplied him with an idea on which he was not slow to work. giles was fully persuaded that sue was in the country, and might not return for some days. he seemed more pleased than otherwise that she should be so employed. pickles was so delighted with his own success that he danced a kind of hornpipe all the way home. he found sue by herself and very disconsolate, for mrs. price had gone out on some errands. the first thing he did was to go up to her and give her two very fierce salutes, one on her brow, the other on the point of her chin. "there, now," he said; "that 'ere little tender brother sent yer them." "oh pickles! how is he? is he wery cut up?" asked poor cinderella, raising a tearful face. "cut up? not a bit o' him! why, he's quite perky; he think as you has gone to the country." "oh pickles! how hever could he?" "well, listen, and i'll tell yer." pickles here related his whole interview, not forgetting to reproduce in full all his own clever speeches, and his intense admiration for connie. "i'd do a great deal fur _you_, cinderella," he said in conclusion; "fur though ye're as ordinary a woman as i hiver met, yet still yer belongs to the species, and i has a weakness fur the species; but oh, lor'! ef it had been that 'ere connie, why, i'd have a'most spilt my life-blood fur that hangelic creature." "well, yer see, it wor only me," said sue, not a little piqued. "yes, it wor only you. but now, wot do you think of it all?" "oh! i'm wery glad and thankful that giles is wid connie. he wor halways fond of connie, and i'm real pleased as he thinks as i'm gone to the country--that 'ull satisfy him ef hanythink will, fur he have sech a longing fur it, poor feller! but oh, pickles! i do hope as you didn't tell him no lies, to make him so keen upon it." "no--not i. i only nodded and made-believe as he wor clever. no, i wor careful o' the utterances o' the tongue, which is an unruly member." "well, i'm glad," said sue. "i only hope as it ain't wrong to deceive him." "no, it ain't a bit wrong; don't you go a fussing about nothink. but now you have got to listen to me, fur i have got something most serious to talk over." "i'll listen," replied sue. "good! and wot little bit o' brain you have you may stick inter the listening, too, fur you will presently have to think a deal." "wery well," answered sue, who had long ago come to consider pickles the greatest oracle she had ever seen. pickles planted himself on his knees in front of her, and having placed one hand firmly on each leg, bent forward until he brought himself into what he considered a telling position with regard to her face. "ef yer want to unearth a secret, stare 'em well right inter the heyes," was one of his detective principles. "now, cinderella," he began, "you say as ye're hinnercent o' that 'ere theft?" "you know i am," answered sue. "and yet that 'ere wauluable trinket wor found in yer pocket." "well, i can't help that." "i'm afraid yer can't, cinderella; and a wery ugly business it is fur yer; it 'ud bring yer in guilty in hany court wot hiver." "i know that, pickles--i know that only too well; that's why i'm here." "an' you must stay yere until ye're proved hinnercent." "yes." "well, that may be awkward--not fur us, but fur poor, little tender giles. he thinks as ye're gone to the country, and i give him to understand as yer would not be back fur maybe a day or two. but he's hall on a quiver fur yer to come back now; he's hall on a tremble to know wot the country is like. he says ye're to get a cottage as have a big winder in it, fur he wants to see the stars o' nights. now, i think by the looks o' giles as he'll fade away wery quick ef yer don't come back soon." "oh, i know it--i know it!" said sue. "what shall i do? ef i do go back i shall be tuk ter prison. oh! oh! oh!" and she began to weep. "don't cry, you silly! cryin' never mended no broken bones. you dry your eyes and listen when the oracle speaks." "i will," said sue, endeavoring to check her sobs. "well then, yer hinnercence must be proved. the way to prove yer hinnercence is to find hout _who_ put that 'ere trinket in yer pocket." "oh pickles! i don't--i don't think hany one could be so wicked." "bless yer, gel! yer hasn't gone about and seen life like me. 'tis a wicked world, cinderella. some one put that locket in yer pocket; ef it worn't yerself, it wor another." "i don't know why hany one should do it," said sue. "you leave that to me. the reason is a mystery; the person wot did it is a mystery; it remains fur this yere child"--giving his breast a great slap--"to unravel them both. now, cinderella, wot kind o' man wor that 'ere peter harris wot went wid yer to the shop?" "he wor a wery rough kind o' man," said sue, "and he often drank. he wor in trouble jest then 'bout connie. connie is his daughter. she wor away fur a bit, and had come back, and he wanted to give her a ring, and, as i telled yer, we went inter the shop to buy her one." "and had that 'ere harris much money?" "he didn't say as he hadn't; he gave a sovereign to pay fur the ring." "don't yer think, cinderella, as it wor _he_ put the locket in your pocket?" "indeed i don't," answered sue, in great indignation. "he wor a bit rough, and used to drink a good deal, but i never heerd mortal say as he worn't as honest a man as ever stepped. besides, pickles, he wor a friend to me, and i wor a friend to connie, and even ef he wished to do something so desperate wicked he couldn't, fur i wor at the other side o' the shop a'most." "all the same," replied pickles, shaking his fiery head, "i believe as he did it. 'tis a desperate big mystery, but i means to clear it hup, so you leave it ter me, cinderella." chapter xxiv. mother and son. that night mrs. price and her younger son had a conversation. "i do not want to send her away, jamie," she said when they had discoursed with much interest for some time. "she shall and must stay here for the present; but it cannot go on always, for what would the poor little brother do? if cinderella is the bread-winner, and cinderella can earn no bread, the poor little fellow will starve." james price, _alias_ pickles, was looking very sober, even thoughtful. "it tuk a deal o' time to save hup, and 'tis rare and comforting to reflect on having it--but there's my half-crown," he said. "bless you, my laddie! it will help a trifle, but half-a-crown won't feed the smallest eater for long." "then, mother, you know i allow no one ter dictate ter me but you. wot's to be done? ere we to betray the hinnercent?" "no, my lad--no. i confess i am sorely puzzled." "but i ain't," said pickles, who had knowingly brought his mother round to make this confession. "i ain't puzzled the least bit in life, fur i _know_ who is the real thief." "now, jamie, what do you mean?" "mother, it were the man as went with cinderella inter the shop; it wor he wot stole the locket and then put it inter her pocket. i don't know how he did it, nor why he did it, but i do know that _did_ do it." "oh! my dear boy, in your love of mystery you are allowing your imagination to run away with you. i do not think any one would be so wicked." "never you mind, mother; take it on trust as there's that much wickedness in this yer world. be thankful ye're hout o' the way o' hearing o' what's disgusting to dwell on, but this yere is a mystery as must be cleared hup. how do you s'pose, mother, as the locket did get inter cinderella's pocket?" "it may have slipped in as she stood by the counter." "oh, come, mother! that 'ud go down wid no jury as hiver walked. no, no; b'lieve me as 'tis as i say; and wot's more, 'tis my business to prove the truth o' my thoughts. there's a mystery, but james price, _alias_ pickles, 'ull unravel it. you keep cinderella fur a week yere, mother, and i'll engage as the guilty party confesses by the end o' that time." "i will keep the little girl as long as is necessary, pickles. but do be careful. do not allow your vivid imagination to make you unjust to others." "you leave it ter me, mother. you jest promise faithful to keep cinderella fur a bit, and i'll do the rest." "yes, jamie," said mrs. price, "i certainly will make that promise." "that's a brick o' a mother. and now i'm off to bed, fur there's nothing like sleep when the brain is much exercised, as mine is at present." chapter xxv. about ronald. while poor harris was trying to soothe the agonies of his conscience by being specially and extra good to giles, and while giles, who under connie's care was recovering a certain measure of strength, and poor little sue was still acting the part of cinderella with pickles as her champion, another child who plays an important part in this story was gradually recovering health and strength. when ronald was well enough, to come downstairs, and then to walk across mrs. anderson's pretty little parlor, and on a certain fine day to go out with her for a walk, the good lady thought it was full time to make inquiries with regard to his relations. she questioned her son george on the subject, and this gallant young fireman gave her what advice he could. "no, don't employ detectives, mother," said george. "somehow i hate the whole lot of them. keep ronald as long as you want to; he's a dear little chap, and a gentleman by birth, and he loves you too." "i want to keep him, george; the child is the greatest delight and comfort to me. he is very unlike other children--very sensitive and delicate. but i do think that if he has relations they ought to know of his whereabouts." "you have questioned him, of course, on the matter," said george anderson. "no--not much; he hasn't been strong enough. i think, too, the severe illness he has undergone, and the terrible frights he has been subject to, have to a certain extent affected his mind; and beyond the fact that he is always looking for his father, and hoping that his father may walk in, he never talks about the old days." "well, mother," said george, "i must be off now; duty time is close at hand." as he spoke he rose from the seat by the fire which he had been enjoying in his mother's room. "of course, there is little doubt that major harvey is dead; but you could call at the war office and inquire, mother, couldn't you?" "yes, i could and will; and i won't employ detectives, my boy. you may be certain of one thing--that i don't want to part with the child." the next day after breakfast, mrs. anderson felt that it was time to question ronald with regard to his past life. "you are quite well now, ronald," she said. "yes," said ronald, "ever so strong. i feel brave, too," he added; "it would take a very great deal to frighten me now. a soldier's boy should be brave," he continued, that pleading, pathetic look coming into his dark eyes, which gave such a special charm to his little face. "this soldier's boy is very brave," said mrs. anderson, patting his little hand, as the child stood close to her. "my father was a v. c., ma'am," remarked ronald in a soft tone. "you're very proud of that, ronald--you have good reason to be," said his friend. "but now, dear, i seriously want to ask you a few questions. you have told me about connie, and about some of your dreadful life with mammy warren. i am anxious that you should try to forget all these terrible things as much as possible." "oh! but, please, i never could forget dear connie." "i don't want you to forget her. i have been planning a delightful surprise for you with regard to her. but other things you can forget." "there's another person i don't want to forget," said ronald; "that is the good woman in the country who gave me delicious new-laid eggs and chops and chicken. mrs. cricket was her name. i used to think of _the cricket on the hearth_ often when i was looking at her. she was very like one, you know--such a cosy, purring sort of woman." "how long were you with her, ronald?" "i don't remember going to her," said ronald, shaking his head; "but perhaps i was too ill. but i do remember being with her, and the little path in the wood, and how i gradually got better, and how she petted me. and i remember connie coming down the path looking like an angel; but connie was the only bright thing for me to think about that dreadful day. but oh, please--please, mrs. anderson! poor mrs. cricket! father hasn't come back, you know--he is coming, of course, but he hasn't come yet--and no one has paid mrs. cricket!" "no one has paid her, dear?" "nobody at all. mammy warren said to her that father would pay her, but i know now it must have been all a lie." "i am very much afraid it was," said mrs. anderson. "that mammy warren was a dreadful woman. well, ronald, i must try and get mrs. cricket's address, and we'll send her some money; and some day perhaps--there's no saying when--you may be able to go back to her. would you like to see her again?" "very, very much," said the child, "if mammy warren doesn't come to fetch me." "very well: i will endeavor to get her address. perhaps connie could tell me." "oh! perhaps she could," said ronald; "for _i_ couldn't. i haven't a notion where she lived, except that it was far in the country, and the cottage was _teeny_--just two rooms, you know--and there was a pretty wood outside, and the horse-chestnuts lying on the ground." "but now, ronald, i want you to go farther back. tell me of things that happened when--when your mother was alive." "i--i'll try," said the boy. "go on, dear--tell me all you can." "it's very difficult," said ronald. "i remember little bits, and then i forget little bits." "i don't want you to worry yourself, dear; but can you recall anybody ever calling to see your mother--anybody who might be a relation of yours?" "there was the old gentleman, of course," said ronald. "who, dear?" "he was very old, and he wore glasses, and his hair was white. he most times made mother cry, so i--i used to be sorry when he came." "can you recall his name?" "mother used to call him uncle stephen; but he was not her relation--he was father's. i think he always scolded mother; she used to look dreadfully bad after he was gone. i don't want to see _him_ again." "but he may have had a kind heart." "oh, i don't know," said ronald. "i don't want to see him again." "do you think, by chance, that his name was harvey?" "i don't know. i think he in a sort of way belonged to father." "then," said mrs. anderson, "i guess that his name was harvey. now, i won't question you any more, ronald. you may sit up and play with your bricks." ronald played happily enough, and mrs. anderson, after thinking for a few minutes, wrote out an advertisement. the advertisement ran as follows: "if a gentleman who was called uncle stephen by a little boy, son of the late major harvey, who was supposed to have been killed in action at ladysmith on ----, would wish to know anything of the same boy, he can get full particulars from mrs. anderson, carlyle terrace, westminster." this advertisement was put into the _times_, the _standard_, the _telegraph_, and in fact, into all the daily newspapers. it appeared once, and mrs. anderson sat--as she expressed it--with her heart in her mouth for a whole day. but nothing happened: nobody came to inquire; there was no letter on the subject of the little son of brave major harvey. on the second day of the advertisement mrs. anderson felt a great relief in her heart. "after i have advertised for a whole week," she said to herself, "i shall, i think, have done my duty, and perhaps i shall be allowed to keep the dear child." she had looked, and felt, very sad on the first day of the advertisement, but on the second day she was more cheerful, and suggested to ronald that connie should come and have tea with him. ronald was delighted, and clapped his hands in glee. mrs. anderson wrote a little note to connie, slightly blaming her for not coming to see her, but begging her to call that afternoon and have tea with ronald. connie was greatly delighted when she got the letter. "may i go, giles? do yer mind?" she asked. "in course not," answered giles. "why should i mind? yer'll dress yerself in yer wery best, connie, and i'll like well to look at yer afore yer goes out, an' w'en yer comes back." so connie put on her dark-blue costume once more, and brushed out her mane of golden hair and let it hang down her back; for she knew that ronald would scarcely recognize her deprived of this ornament. then, having left his tea all ready for giles, she ran quickly in the direction of mrs. anderson's house. she arrived there at four o'clock in the afternoon, to see a little face pressed up close to the pane of glass, and eager eyes watching for her. when she appeared on the steps little hands began to clap, and there was an eager rush of footsteps and then ronald himself opened the door. "oh connie, connie!" he said, "come in--do, do come in!" "how be yer, ronald?" asked connie. "i'm as well as well can be, and i'm happy, too. mrs. anderson is just a beautiful old lady, and so very good to me! but come and tell me all about yourself. you and i are to have tea all alone in this room. we will have fun. why, connie dear, how lovely you look!" connie told ronald that he also looked lovely, and the two children sat down side by side, while ronald related the little bit of his story which had transpired since connie saw him last. "i was very ill," he said, "for a bit, and silly, and--and cowardly. but a wonderful man came to see me, and he talked--oh, so beautifully!--and then i got better; and mrs. anderson has been more than good to me--no one was ever so good to me before except father. she tells me, connie, that i must not keep looking out for father; for if he can come he will, and if he can't i've just got to wait with patience. the street preacher, too, talked about patience. it's a little bit hard to be very patient, isn't it, connie?" "yus," said connie. "oh! and, connie, some day perhaps you and i may go and stay with mrs. cricket in the country, and mrs. anderson is going to send her money for the chickens and fresh eggs and things. but i can't remember where the country is--can you, connie?" "we got out at a plice called eastborough, an' the cottage wor a ivy cottage down a lane." "ivy cottage--of course!" said ronald. "how stupid of me to have forgotten! now it's all right, and dear mrs. cricket will get her money." when ronald had told all his story connie told all hers. in especial she told about giles, and about poor sue, who had vanished just as suddenly and completely as she (connie) and ronald himself on a certain day had disappeared from their friends. "it's very, very queer," said ronald. "connie," he added, "i want to see that little boy. can't you take me back to him now--can't you?" "yus," said connie, "i could; but would it be right?" "we'll ask mrs. anderson," said ronald, "i'm certain sure she won't mind. you know the way there; you won't let yourself be kidnapped any more, will you, connie?" "no," said connie. then tea was brought in, and the children enjoyed it. but ronald could think of nothing but giles and his earnest desire to see him. once again he begged and implored of connie to take him, just to sit for a few minutes by the little cripple's side, and connie again said that mrs. anderson ought to know. it was just at that moment that a cab drew up at the door, and out of the cab there stepped a white-headed old man, who came ponderously up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed stick. he rang the bell with a loud peal. ronald began to listen. "who can it be?" he said. he ran to the window, and looking out, saw the cab waiting; but he missed the sight of the old gentleman, whom doubtless he would have recognized; and the neat little parlor-maid went to open the door, and then the labored steps were heard in the hall, and the drawing-room door was opened and shut, and there was silence. "a visitor for my dear new aunty," said ronald. "i always call her my aunty, and she likes it very much. oh connie, do take me just to see giles! i know it isn't wrong, and i should be quite safe with you." "first of all," said connie, "we'll ring the bell and ask if we may speak to mrs. anderson for a minute." "very well," said ronald; "only i 'spect she's busy with the person who has called." anne came to answer the children's summons, and told them that her mistress was particularly engaged and could not be disturbed. "that's all right," answered ronald; "you can go away now, please. you needn't take the tea-things just for a bit. you can go away, please, anne." anne, who was devoted to ronald, thought that the children wanted to play together, and left them alone in the little parlor. the light was growing dim, and connie poked the fire into a blaze. "i ought to be goin' back," she said. "giles 'ull want me. i'll come another day, ronald, and mrs. anderson'll let me bring yer back to giles then." "no, no--to-day," said ronald--"to-day--to-night--this minute. it isn't wrong. i must see him. you'll take me to see him, and then you'll bring me back, won't you, connie?" "w'y, yus," said connie. "i s'pose it ain't wrong; but you can't do more nor set down in the room for about five minutes, ronald, for yer'll 'ave to get back 'ere quite early, you know." ronald, delighted at any sort of consent on the part of his little friend, rushed upstairs to fetch his velvet cap and his little overcoat. but he forgot, and so did connie, all about the thin house-shoes he was wearing. soon he had slipped into the coat, and cramming the cap on his head and looking up at connie with a gay laugh, said: "now we'll come." they were in the hall, and had just opened the hall door, when suddenly that of the drawing-room was opened, and the old man, who helped himself along with a stick, came out. ronald looked back and caught sight of him; but ronald himself being in shadow, the old man did not notice him. the old man then spoke in a loud voice: "it is all settled, then, and i will call to-morrow morning at ten o'clock to fetch back the boy. have him ready. and now, good-day to you, madam." but the old gentleman suddenly stopped as he uttered these words, for the hall door was slammed by some one else with violence, and ronald turned a white face up to connie. "it's himself--it's uncle stephen. he made mother cry and cry. i won't go back to him. i won't be his boy. hide me--hide me, connie!" connie herself felt very much frightened. "come along 'ome with me," she said. "he can't get yer at my 'ome. don't shrink like that, ronald. be a man, dear ronald." the children got back to connie's rooms without any special adventure. there giles was waiting with that peaceful look on his face which seemed more or less to quiet every one who came in his way. he smiled all over his little face when he saw connie, and then his eyes grew big and surprised as he noticed the small boy who kept her company. "why are yer back so soon, connie?" he said. "i warn't not one little bit lonesome. and 'oo's he?" said giles. "this is my dear little friend ronald," said connie. "and i wanted to see you awful bad," said ronald, running up to giles, flinging his cap on the floor, and kneeling down by him. "i have thought of you--oh, so much! it was you, you know, who taught me to endure to the end. did connie tell you about that?" "yes," said giles, "she told me." ronald looked up at connie. giles watched the two, and then he held out his little hand and touched ronald's. "you're wery brave," he said. "you had a brave father." "he is a v. c. man. he's coming to see me one day," said ronald. "i know," said giles. "it's real supporting to 'ave a brave father. i have one too." "have you?" said ronald. "and is he coming to see you one day?" "no--i'm goin' to 'im. don't let's talk about it now." ronald sat down on the side of giles's crimson and gold bed, and glanced round the room. connie lit a paraffin lamp and put it on the table. in his first excitement at seeing giles, ronald forgot the mad terror which had awakened in him at the sound of uncle stephen's voice. but now he remembered. "i have come to stay," he remarked emphatically. "oh no, ronald, you can't," exclaimed connie. "i am not going back," exclaimed ronald. "giles, i needn't, need i? there's a dreadful man coming to-morrow, and he's going to take me away from my darling aunty. i won't go. i'll hide here with you, giles." "will yer?" said giles. "that 'ull be real pain to yer aunty, won't it?" "real pain?" said ronald. "but connie can tell her. connie needn't say where i am. she can just tell that i heard uncle stephen's voice, and that i am hiding. i can't go back, can i, giles--can i?" "dunno," said giles; but a wistful expression came into his face. "why do you look like that?" asked ronald. "sometimes one 'as to do things one can't do," was giles's next rather difficult remark. "but this is really silly," said ronald, "for we can do the things we can do." "course not--not by ourselves," said giles. "but if we're to endure to the end, why, 'e'll help." "you remind me of that awful fire," said ronald. he jumped up and walked across the room. his eyes were dim; his heart was beating with great rapidity, for he was still weak and had gone through much. oh, that cruel, cruel old man who had made his mother cry so often! he thought upon him with a growing terror. connie looked at ronald, and then she glanced at giles and her eyes said to giles: "help me all you can about ronald." then giles called her to him. "leave ronald with me for a bit," he said. "go back and tell mrs. anderson; but leave little ronald with me." connie immediately went out; but ronald was so absorbed in trying to quiet his beating heart, and in trying to recover his courage, that he did not even know when she closed the door after her. connie ran as quickly as she could all the way to carlyle terrace. there she rang a loud peal at the front door. it was mrs. anderson herself who opened it to her. "oh connie!" said the widow, "thank god! have you brought news of ronald? what _has_ happened, connie--what _has_ happened?" connie immediately entered the house. "may i speak to yer, ma'am?" she said. "certainly; but where is the boy?" "he's quite safe, ma'am--he's with giles." "why did he go out? he did very wrong." "i did wrong too," said connie. "i tuk him. he's frightened, ma'am. ronnie's rare and frightened. he heered wot the old gentleman said." "how could he hear?" said mrs. anderson. connie told. "'tain't true, ma'am, is it?" said connie. "yer wouldn't niver, niver, let little ronald go away?" "yes, but i must. i am very sad. i wish i needn't send him; but the gentleman who called to-day is his father's uncle, and his nearest relation in the world. connie, you must bring ronald home. i will go with you myself to fetch him." "oh, ma'am," said connie, beginning to sob, "it 'ull break his 'eart." "no, connie," answered mrs. anderson. "hearts like ronald's--brave and true and faithful--don't break; they endure. besides that, the old gentleman--mr. harvey--will not be unkind to him; i am certain of that." so connie and mrs. anderson returned side by side to the house where giles and ronald were waiting for them. when they entered they saw a picture which mrs. anderson could never forget: the dying boy, with his radiant face, lying on the bed half-supported by pillows, the crimson and gold coverlet making a wonderful patch of color; and ronald, the tears still wet on his cheeks, but his eyes very bright, his lips firm, his whole attitude that of a soldier's child. the moment he saw mrs. anderson he went up to her. "i am ashamed," he said. "giles has told me the son of a v. c. man should not be a coward. it is all right--i am going back." mrs. anderson pressed the boy's hand. "i knew you wouldn't disappoint me, ronald," she said. then she turned and talked a little longer to giles. she saw how weak the child was, and knew, with a woman's perception, what a very little time longer he had to live in this old world. "my sister's in the country, ma'am," said giles in his brightest manner. "she's looking for a little house for her an' me--two winders in our room--that's wot sue an' me thought we 'ud like--and iverythink wery purty. sue may be back any day. she's takin' a good bit of a time a-lookin' for the 'ouse; but she'll find it, an' then i'll go there." "but are you strong enough to be moved, giles?" inquired mrs. anderson. "yus," said giles in his confident tone, "quite strong enough. i want to see the country, and to live in it for a spell, afore i go right 'ome to the best country of all. sue's lookin' out; she'll be back--oh, any day, for she knows the time's short." "giles," said connie, "you're too tired to talk any more." she gave the boy some of his restorative medicine, and ronald went up and kissed him. "don't forget," said giles, "brave fathers----" "not me!" answered ronald. "brave fathers for ever!" then ronald went away. mrs. anderson took his hand and led him back to the house. she did not scold him for going out with connie. she did not mean to reproach him at all; he had made a great victory; she felt proud of him. when supper had come to an end she called the boy to her: "ronald dear, i wish to say something. if you were a coward to-day, so was i." "you--my aunt?" said ronald. "oh no--no!" "yes. i didn't want to part with you." ronald shivered. "won't you ever see me any more?" "i hope so. mr. harvey was very kind." "is his name harvey--same as mine?" "yes, darling; he is your father's uncle, and your father lived with him in his old place in somersetshire when he was a boy. he loved your father. he'll tell you lots of stories about him." "about when does he expect father home?" asked ronald. "he doesn't know. perhaps, ronald--perhaps--never." but here ronald gave himself a little shake. "i know father's coming back," he said--"feel it in my bones." there was silence then between the woman and the boy. after a long time ronald spoke: "he made mother cry, all the same." "he told me about that. he wasn't really unkind to her. i, on the whole, like him, ronald, and i think you can do a lot for him--i think your father would wish it." "would he?" said ronald, his eyes sparkling. "i think so. i expect god wants you to help him. he's a hard old man because he has no one to love him, but he did care for your father." ronald flung his arms round mrs. anderson's neck and kissed her. that night it must be owned that he slept badly; and early--very early--in the morning he awoke. "times is pretty bad," thought the boy to himself; "and there's lots o' battles round. but oh, giles! brave fathers for ever! you and me won't disgrace our fathers, will we, giles?" then he got up and dressed himself, and went downstairs and waited until mrs. anderson arrived. as soon as she entered the room he said one word to her--"when?" "ten o'clock," said mrs. anderson. it was eight o'clock then. "two hours more," said ronald. during those two hours he was very busy. he packed his bricks, and helped mrs. anderson to put his very scanty wardrobe into a very tiny trunk. the time went by. ten o'clock struck, and, sharp to the minute, a cab drew up at the door. out of the cab the old gentleman stepped. he entered the hall. he was a very fussy old man, and did not want a young child to live in the house with him. he expected, too, that mrs. harvey's boy--he had undoubtedly a great contempt for poor young harvey--would be a miserable, dwindled, wretched sort of creature. but, lo and behold! a little chap with head well thrown back, his eyes bright and lips brave, stepped up to him. "here i am, uncle stephen. i am ronald. how do you do?" "bless my soul!" said the old man. "let me look at you." he drew the boy round so as to get the light on his face. "'pon my word!" he said, "you are not the sort of little chap i expected. you're uncommon like your father." ronald flushed with pride. mr. harvey came into the parlor and had a little talk with mrs. anderson. "i am indeed indebted to you, madam," he said. "this boy is so surprisingly like my nephew that i could almost fancy the years had gone back and i was teaching the little chap to take his first gallop.--your father was game on a horse, my lad." "yes, sir," said ronald, nodding his head. "'spect so, sir," he added. the old gentleman chucked him under the chin and uttered a laugh. "well, boy, we must be going," he said. "we mustn't keep your kind friend. you will let me know, madam, for what i am indebted to you." "for nothing, sir," said mrs. anderson. a crimson color rushed into her face. "it has been a labor of love to help this dear little fellow. i could take no money; you mustn't even mention it, sir." "well, madam--well--i respect your proper pride, and anything i can do---- by the way--eh, ronald?--there's no saying, but i might invite your friend down to the country.--do you know somersetshire, madam?" "i used to know it very well when i was a girl. my people lived in somersetshire." "then perhaps you will come and pay us a visit, and see ronald after he has learned the full use of the saddle and bridle--eh, ronald?" "oh--aunty! will you come?" said ronald. "i will, darling.--i should like it very much indeed, mr. harvey; it is most kind of you to ask me." "but please--please," said ronald, who had suddenly lost all his fear, "may connie come, too?" "who's connie?" "my special friend and sister." "ho, ho!" said the old man. "i must hear more about her. can make no rash promises. but all right, little chap; i'll do what i can for you. now, if you had taken after---- well, never mind--i won't say anything to hurt you." "and, please," said ronald suddenly, "of course you wouldn't pay my aunty, for the things she did can't be paid for. but poor mrs. cricket--aunty, i know her address. the place in the country is called eastborough; and it's ivy cottage, aunty; and--she was good to me----" "yes," said mrs. anderson, "you'll let me explain, please, mr. harvey. this dear little boy spent a month at mrs. cricket's, and she was never paid a penny." "she ought to be paid," said ronald. "course, when father returns he'll pay you back again. but she ought to get it, for there was real new-laid eggs, and the chickens were so tender." "'pon my word," said the old gentleman, "you're a queer boy! i guess you've got the true harvey blood in you. never neglect a friend--eh? and never owe a penny. well now, madam, will you see to this? and what amount of money ought i to give you for the woman?" mrs. anderson named what she thought would be a correct sum, and immediately afterwards the old gentleman produced the money from his waistcoat pocket. it was a hard moment for ronald when he said good-bye, but after he got into the cab he could not help feeling both surprised and elated. he could not help staring and staring at the old gentleman. "was it your photograph," he said at last, "that my father kept in his dressing-room?" "i expect so," said the old gentleman. "it's surprising," said ronald, "how i forget. but now i remember. he loved you--he used to talk to me about you. he said it was you taught him first to be brave." "bless him--bless him!" said the old gentleman. his voice got a little raspy; it is certain that his eyes were a little dim. "perhaps," said ronald--he had a marvelous way of comprehending the situation--"but for you he would not have been a v. c. man." "god bless you! it was in himself--he had the noblest heart, the grandest nature! there, boy! don't upset me. 'pon my word! i hated the thought of having you---- and i hated going to you," said ronald; "but----" the old face looked into the young face, and the young face looked into the old face, and then they both laughed. before they reached the old gentleman's hotel ronald had so far advanced to a friendly footing that he had peered into the contents of the old man's pocket, had pulled out his watch, had applied it to his ear, and had even gone the amazing length of demanding one for himself. chapter xxvi. two cups of coffee. when harris parted from giles and connie--on the very same day that connie had gone to tea with ronald, on the very same day that ronald had visited giles--he was as troubled and miserable as man could be. there was but one brave thing for him to do--he ought to confess his sin. where sue could be he had not the faintest idea. why was she absent? it was days now since she had left her home--sue, of all people--sue, with a little delicate brother like giles. it was unlike her to go. there could be but one reason. harris had taken means to ascertain whether poor sue had been up before the magistrates. he knew enough about the law, and about crime generally, to know that she would be taken up for theft to bow street; but beyond doubt she had never gone there. where in all the world could she be? harris was by no means sufficiently sorry to give himself up for conscience's sake; but he was in a state of nervousness and great distress of mind. as he walked down a side-street, his hands in his pockets, his rough fur cap--which he generally wore slouched--well off his eyes, he was suddenly accosted by a red-haired boy, who looked at him with a very innocent face and inquired meekly "ef he were lookin' for a job." "none o' yer sauce, youngster," said harris, passing on. "i don't mean the least sauce in life, master," said the red-haired boy, still in the most humble and gentle tone. "i only thought ef we were goin' in the same direction we might p'rhaps cheer each other up." "you're a likely youngster, you ere," he said, looking down at him with the grimmest of smiles. "yus, my mother says as i'm well grown for my hage," replied pickles; and then, keeping pace with the tall man, he began to whistle softly. harris returned to his interrupted thoughts, and soon forgot the small boy, who had to run to keep up with his long strides. suddenly the little boy exclaimed in a shrill, eager treble: "i say, mister!" "wot now, young 'un?" "you ain't of a wery obleeging turn, be yer? you couldn't help me, now, ter find a guilty party?" "you seems a wery rum chap," said harris rather crossly. "i don't know nothink 'bout yer guilty parties. there, be off, can't yer!" "i'll be off in a twinkle, master. i ain't rum a bit; my mother allers said as i wor a real quiet boy; but when my heart is full to bustin' it seems a relief to talk to a body, and you, tho' yer puts on bein' fierce, have a kind nature." "now, what hever do yer mean by that?" "master, you must furgive a wery timid and heasily repulsed boy; but it ain't possible, even fur one so known to be frightened as me, to be feared of yer. i reads yer kindness in yer heyes, master, and so i makes bold to tell my tale o' woe." "well, tell away," said harris, who could not help laughing and looking a little less gruff than before. "you wouldn't be inclined, now, that we should have hour talk hover a pint of hot coffee? there's a heatin-house where the young man have took down the shutters and is dusting away in a manner as his real appetizing. i has fourpence in my pocket. you wouldn't mind my treating yer, jest fer once, would yer?" "not in the least, youngster. i think it'll be a wery sensible use to put yer money to, and a deal more prudent than spending it in marbles or street plays." "master, my mother don't allow me to play at marbles, or to hindulge in street wanities, so i has the money and can afford ter be generous. now let's enter. i smells the coffee a-grinding hup fur hour breakfasts halready." so harris and pickles went in to the eating-house, where in a moment or two, over two steaming cups of excellent coffee, pickles proceeded to unburden himself of his story. "it is only a few days agone, master, as the occurrence as distresses me happened. i wor walking along a certain street wot shall be nameless. i wor walking along bravely, as is my wont, and thinking of my mother, when i see'd a young gel a-flying past me. she wor a wery short, stout gel, and her legs they quite waggled as she ran. i never see'd a gel run so wery hard afore, and i pricked hup my senses to guess wot it hall meant. soon wor the mystery explained. i heerd ahind of her the cry of 'stop thief!' and a number of men and boys were a-giving of her chase. i thought as i'd run wid 'em and see what it hall meant. "presently we shall come up wid the gel. there she wor in the arms of a policeman. he wor a-clutching of her, and trying to find hout wot wor the matter; but she wor so blown she couldn't speak fur a good bit. then hup comes a man wot said as he had a pawnshop, and that inter the pawnshop had come a man and a gel ter buy a ring, and when they come hout there wor a diamond locket missing. he said as either the gel or the man 'ad tuk the locket; and as the man could not be found, he must get the policeman to search the gel. the poor fat gel, she looked quite scared, and said as she hadn't done it; but the nipper said as she must be searched, and he put in his hand inter her pocket and drew hout the diamond locket. she said as she had never put it there. but, in course, it worn't ter be expected as they'd believe her, so she were tuk orf ter prison. she wor tuk orf ter prison--i see'd her myself." here pickles paused. nothing could have been more refined and delicate than the use he had made of his eyes during this narrative; only very quick and fleeting glances did he bestow upon his companion. when harris at the commencement of his tale started and changed color, pickles dropped a piece of bread, and stayed under the table looking for it until the man had quite recovered his composure. when his short story had come to an end he paused; then he said, still without bestowing more than the swiftest side-glance on harris, "the poor fat gel were tuk orf to the lock-hup. but 'tis borne bin on me, master--'tis borne him on me, and i can't get no rest day nor night--as that yer gel were hinnercent. i believe as she never tuk the locket, and i think that ef ye're as kind-hearted as yer looks yer'll help me ter find that other guilty party." harris rose to his feet. "don't be a fool, lad," he said angrily. "i have no time ter give ter sech nonsense. i'm soory fur the gel, but ef she had the locket, of course she tuk the locket. there! i can waste no time. i'll pay fur my hown coffee. good-morning." "good-morning, master, and thank yer. i'm glad as ye're sorry fur the gel; she have a lame brother as must miss her, and her case 'ull go heavy, i fear. it seems as it might be a good work ter find the guilty party. i think as it wor the man as went with her inter the shop. i mean ter attend the trial, and i'll mention, ef permitted, my suspicions. but i won't keep yer longer. sorry again as yer won't oblige me, i'll go home now and consult my mother." all the way back to great anvill street, where mrs. price lived, pickles danced a hornpipe. "i've nailed him at last," he said, chuckling and laughing and dancing all in one breath. "now to put on the torture screw until he confesses! oh pickles, my boy, _wot_ a treasure you'll prove yerself in scotland yard!" chapter xxvii. delayed trial. it is quite true that pickles had put on the torture screw. harris felt exceedingly uncomfortable as he walked home. it was a fact, then, that sue had been caught and put in prison. that disagreeable boy had seen it all; he had witnessed her rapid flight; he had heard her protestations of innocence; he had seen her carried off to prison. sue, so good and brave and honest, would be convicted of theft and would have to bear the penalty of theft--of another's theft, not her own. what a foolish girl she had been to run away! of course, it made her guilt seem all the plainer. there was not a loophole of escape for her. she was certain to be found guilty; probably to-day she would be brought before the magistrate and sentence pronounced upon her. he wondered what magistrate would try her; how long her punishment would last. had he dared he would have attended her trial. but he did not dare. that red-haired boy--that most unpleasant, impudent boy--would probably be there. there was no saying what things he might say. he would probably appear as a witness, and nothing would keep that giddy tongue of his quiet. what a very queer boy he was, and how strange were his suspicions! when any one else in all the world would have accepted sue's guilt as beyond doubt or question, he persisted in declaring her innocent. nay, more than that, he had even declared that the man who had gone with her into the shop was the guilty person. harris knew there was no proof against the man. no one had seen him take the locket; no one had witnessed its transfer into sue's pocket. the man was safe enough. no one living could bring his guilt home to him. but stay a moment! a horrible fear came over him. why did that boy speak like that? he saw sue running away. perhaps he had seen more than that. perhaps he had come on the platform of events earlier in the narrative. harris felt the cold sweat starting to his forehead as it occurred to him that that awful boy had reason for his talk--that he _knew_ to whom he was speaking. when harris took the locket he might have been flattening his nose against the window-pane at the pawnbroker's; he might have seen all that was taking place. what was to be done? he could not confess, and yet if he didn't he was in horrible danger; his present state was worse than any state he had been in before. suppose connie ever found out his meanness, his wickedness. harris was very fond of connie just then. he had suffered during her absence. his home was pleasant to him--as pleasant as his guilty conscience would permit during those days, for little giles was like no one else. oh, could the awful moment ever come when giles would look at him with reproachful eyes--when giles would turn away from him? the miserable man felt that were such a time to arrive it would be almost as bad as the knowledge that god himself could not forgive him. he was distracted, miserable; he must find a refuge from his guilty thoughts. a public-house stood handy. he had not really taken too much for a long time now--not since that terrible night when, owing to drink, he had turned his child from his door. but he would forget his misery now in drink. "that dreadful boy!" he muttered--"that dreadful, dreadful boy, with hair like a flame, and eyes that peered into you like gimlets!" harris passed through the great swing-doors. his good angel must almost have disappeared at that moment. meanwhile connie and giles watched and waited in vain for sue. she was coming to-day--she was coming to-morrow. but the weary hours went by and no sue arrived; there was no message from her. harris went oftener and oftener to the public-house, and brought less and less of his wages home, and giles faded and faded, and connie also looked very sad and weary. once connie said to giles, when nearly a month had gone by: "yer'll 'ave to give up that notion 'bout the country, giles, for 'tain't true." "yus, i believe i must give it up," said giles. "ain't yer anxious now 'bout dear sue?" asked connie. "not wery," said giles. "ef she ain't in the country, the good lord 'ave her safe somewhere else--that's wot i'm a-thinkin' of. father john said to me we'en he come last as trials of this sort are good for me." "you 'ave nothing but trials, poor giles!" said connie. "oh no," answered giles; "i ha' lots o' blessings--you and big ben, the beautiful woice, you know. connie, some'ow i think as my wings is growin' wery fast. i think w'en they're full-grown----" "wot then?" asked connie. "why, i'll fly away. i can't 'ardly believe as a poor little lame boy like me could fly up higher than the stars, but that's wot 'ull 'appen. i picter it wery often--me no longer tied down to my bed, but with wings, flyin' about as strong as the angels. only father john says i'll be higher than the angels, for i'll be one o' the ransomed o' the lord. i'll see father john, too, an' you'll come after a bit, an' sue 'ull come. i can't fret no, i can't." after this connie went for the doctor, and the doctor said that the boy was very ill--that he might linger a few weeks more, but his sufferings were growing less, and that connie's kind care was effecting wonders for him. the weeks went by. harris grew accustomed to his sense of guilt, and sue to her captivity. pickles was anxiously looking forward to a crisis. harris, after giving way to drink for several days, refrained again and worked steadily. he brought in, in consequence, good wages, and connie and giles wanted for nothing. it was the one salve to his conscience, this making of giles comfortable; otherwise, notwithstanding the manifest amendment of his ways, he was scarcely happy. indeed, pickles took care that he should not be so. in the most unlikely and unexpected places this dreadful boy would dart upon him, and more and more certain was harris that he not only knew his secret, but had witnessed his guilt. harris would have fled miles from the boy, but the boy would not be fled from. he acted as a perpetual blister on the man's already sore conscience, and harris almost hated him. his first resolve to confide in pickles and bribe him into silence had long ago died away. he dared not even offer to bribe him; the perfectly fearless and uncorrupt spirit which looked out of the eyes of the boy would be, he knew, proof against all that he could do in the matter of either rewards or punishments. no; all that harris could do was to maintain as imperturbable a spirit as possible while pickles expatiated upon the cruel fate of sue. as far as he could dare question him, he learned from pickles that sue had not been yet tried even before the magistrate. he wondered greatly at this delay, and pickles, who read his wonder in his eyes, remarked lightly that the reason of this long postponement was because the police were busy looking for the guilty party. "whether they finds him or not," concluded pickles, "it must come off soon now, fur i'm told that the expense of keeping sue is breaking that 'ere lock-hup. i 'spect as it 'ull be the finest bit o' a trial as have been fur many a day. i means to be there. and you'll come, won't yer, mr. harris?" "i'm sick o' the subject," said harris. "oh no, you ain't, mr. harris; you 'ave a wery quiet manner, as his only wot his right and becoming, but i can see yer hinterest in yer heyes. you can't keep that good-natured, human look out o' yer heyes, mr. harris; nor can yer help a-starting when yer sees me a-coming. oh no, yer may say wot yer likes, but ye're real interested in that pore, misfort'nit sue, i _knows_; so you will come to her shameful trial, won't yer?" in despair, and fearing any other reply, harris promised. chapter xxviii. cinderella would shield the real thief. after one of these interviews pickles went home and consulted sue. "cinderella," he said, "am i to act as yer prince or not?" "i dunno wot hever yer means, pickles." "well, my beauty, 'tis jest this--the prince rescued cinderella from her cruel sisters, and i want ter rescue you from the arms of justice. you has a wery shameful accusation hanging over you, cinderella; you is, in short, hiding from the law. i can set yer free. shall i?" sue's plump face had grown quite thin during the anxieties of the past month, and now it scarcely lighted up as she answered pickles: "i want ter be set free, but i don't want ter be set free in your way." "'tis the only way, cinderella. the man, peter harris, is the guilty party. he tuk that 'ere locket; he put it in yer pocket. i don't know how he did it, nor why he did it, but i do know that no one else did it. i have jest come from him, and lor' bless yer! i have had him on the torture hooks. i made-b'lieve as you were to be tried next week, and i axed him to come to the trial. i could a'most see him shivering at the bare thought, but fur hall that he did not dare but say he'd come. now, cinderella, ef you were to allow me to manage it, and i wer to get you and he face to face, why, he'd jest have to confess. i'd have a couple o' witnesses handy, and we'd write it down wot he said, and you'd be set free. i'd manage so to terrify him aforehand that he'd have ter confess----" "and then he'd be put in prison?" said sue. "why, in course; and well he'd deserve it. he's the right party to go, fur he's guilty. yes, shameful guilty, too." "he couldn't manage to run away and escape afterwards?" pickles laughed. "you think as i'd help him, maybe. not a bit o' me! i don't harbor no guilty parties, cinderella, as i ha' told yer heaps and heaps o' times. no, he's guilty, and he goes ter prison; there ain't nothink hard in sending him ter prison." "it ha' seemed ter me often lately, pickles, as it must be harder to lie in prison guilty than not guilty--you ha'nt, nothink ter trouble yer mind ef yer ain't guilty." "well then, i s'pose, in that case, as yer'll give yerself hup." "i'd a deal rayther be in hiding with yer, pickles; but i don't feel as ef i _could_ put mr. harris in prison." "then you must go yerself, fur this thing can't go on fur ever." sue looked frightened, and her commonplace gray eyes fell to the ground. she took up the poker and began to trace a pattern on the floor: it was as intricate as her own fate just now. she was a little heroine, however, and her noble thoughts redeemed all plainness from her face when at last she spoke: "once, pickles, arter mother died we was brought down wery low. i had a dreadful influenzy, and i couldn't nohow go to the machining, and we were near starving. mr. harris lent me a shilling that time, and we pulled through. another time i couldn't meet the rent, and connie, she begged of her father, and he give me the money; and when i offerd it him back again he wouldn't take it. he wor a rough man, but he had a kind heart. when i were last at home he wor in a real dreadful trouble about connie--and i loved connie better nor any one in hall the world, arter giles. pickles, it 'ud break connie's heart fur her father to be tuk to prison. i don't know why he did that--ef he really did do it--but i can't furget those two times as he wor good ter me, and hever since i have come yere he have done heverything fur giles. no, i couldn't send mr. harris to prison. i couldn't rest heasy ef i thought o' him sent there by me. i'd rayther lie there myself." "wery well, cinderella; in course you've got ter choose, fur one or other of yer must go to prison, as it is against hall common-sense as you could stay hiding here fur ever. i hadmires yer rare consideration fur that hardened man, peter harris. i can't understand it--no, not the least bit in the world--but i hadmires it as i hadmires the top o' the big mountain wot i could never climb, but jest contemplate solemnly from below. i can understand better yer repugnance not to break the heart o' that purty connie. most plain women is hard on their more lucky sisters, and i hadmires you, cinderella, fur rising superior to the wices of yer sex; but wot i can't hunderstand--wot puzzles me--is yer sad failure in sisterly love. there's that little brother; why, heven now he's pining hal to nothing to see yer. don't yer think as it 'ull break _his_ heart ef yer is tuk ter prison? why, ef yer could have seen him when he heerd me even hint at sech a thing! he said as he wished as he could knock me down." the tears rapidly filled sue's eyes. "pickles," she said after a moment of thought, "'tis a wonderful, wonderful puzzlement ter me. i can't least of all break the heart of giles. giles wor left ter me by mother, and i promised as i'd allers tend him real faithful; but wot i 'as bin thinking is that ef yer must give me hup, and not hide me any longer, and i must be locked hup fur a time, that perhaps we might manage as giles might still think as i wor in the country. connie would be wery good ter him, and mr. harris would support him jest as well as i could have done. giles, he's that innercent that he'd easily be made ter believe as i could not help going away. he knows nothink o' life, little giles don't; he'd never, never guess as there were ought o' the prison 'bout me, and arter a time he'd get accustomed to doing widout me. i think, pickles, we might manage so as not to break giles's heart, and yet fur me to go ter prison." "then you really, really chooses to go ter prison, cinderella?" "i choose, pickles, never to tell on peter harris--never, wot hever happens. i don't want ter go to prison--not one bit--but ef i can't stay hiding, why, i s'pose as i must." "you can't stay hiding more than a day or two longer, cinderella, and i thinks as ye're a great fool;" and pickles walked out of the room in apparently high dudgeon. chapter xxix. a little heroine. two days afterwards it was sunday. pickles and his mother went to church, but sue did not accompany them. she had hitherto, notwithstanding her disguise, been afraid to stir abroad. to-day, however, when mother and son had departed, she ran eagerly up to the tiny attic where she slept. in this attic was an old box without a lock. sue opened it in some perturbation. there were several articles of wearing apparel in this box, all of a mothy and mouldy character. one by one cinderella pulled them out. first there was a purple silk dress. she gazed at it with admiration. yes; no one would ever recognize sue in silk. it would be delightful to put it on. she did so. the skirt was much too long, but with the aid of a whole boxful of pins, she managed to bundle it up round her waist. then came a soft, many-colored paisley shawl. would any one in all the world think of the little machinist if she sallied forth in purple silk and paisley shawl? sue did not believe it possible. she put on the shawl, and tied on her head an old-fashioned bonnet, trimmed with many-colored ribbons. there was further, in the wonderful box, an old remnant of gauze. this would act as a veil. now, indeed, she was completely disguised. she thought herself very grand, and wondered had the prince ever bought finer clothes for the real cinderella. she shut the box again, tripped downstairs, and out into the street. she had not been out for a whole month now, and the fresh, frosty air, even coming to her through the musty gauze, was very refreshing. she walked quickly. she had an object in view. very purposeful was her careworn little face as she stepped briskly along. she had a problem to solve. it was too weighty for her young shoulders; she must get the advice of another. she meant to consult father john--not by words; no, not even with him would she dare confide her secret. but he preached now both sunday morning and sunday evening. she would stand with the crowd and listen to his sermon. perhaps once again there would be a message for her in it. she had not forgotten that last sermon of his; and that last message sent to her from god by his lips had been with her all through her month of captivity. it had been a sad and anxious month for sue, and now its crisis had come, for the kind people who had protected her could do so no longer; she could no longer eat their bread, nor accept the shelter of their home. no; sue quite agreed with pickles that it would be impossible for her to stay in hiding always. better go forth at once and meet the worst and have it over. she would be put in prison. yes--that is, either she or peter harris would be put in prison. pickles had quite brought her round to the belief that harris was really the guilty party. he had done a very, very dreadful thing. sue could not understand why he had acted so badly, so cruelly by her. surely he was the right person to go to prison; she could not bear his crime for him. but then, again, it would be very like jesus christ if she did. it was wonderful how the thought of the great example was before the mind of this simple, ignorant child as she walked hastily on to meet the one who she believed would decide her fate. to-morow, most likely, pickles would come to her and ask for her final decision. she must make up her mind to-day. she had a long way to walk, and when she reached the street where father john held his weekly services the place was already crowded. the preacher had mounted on his chair and had commenced his discourse. sue heard one or two people say, "look at little mother hubbard." but others, again, admired her costume, and out of respect for the rich silk dress, made way for her to approach nearer to the preacher. "now, lord jesus, please do give me the right word," whispered sue. then through her musty veil her eyes were fixed anxiously on atkins. was it more than a coincidence? this was the sentence which fell upon the expectant ear: "my dear, dear brothers and sisters, 'tis a wonderfully happy thing to be good. it gives a man rare courage. you, most of you, knew poor bob daily. well, he died this morning. he was not a scrap afraid. i was with him, and he went away rejoicing. he knew he was going straight away to jesus--straight away to the arms of jesus. he told me a queer thing which had happened to him when he was a young man. he was falsely accused of a crime which he had not done. he was put in prison. he had to stay locked up for what he was innocent of for two years. he said he guessed who had really done the crime, but he did not like to tell on this man, who was much worse off than himself. he bore the punishment for the guilty man, and he had his reward. all the time he was in prison jesus remained so close to him that he made his heart sing. he says that he could look back on that part of his life as the very happiest time that he had ever spent." "i'm a bit faint-like," said sue to her nearest neighbor. "let me out, please." the people made way for her, and for a moment or so she leant against the nearest lamp-post. she did not hear another word of the sermon. she did not need to. when she felt better she walked back to great anvill street. * * * * * that night, just before pickles went to bed, sue sought him. "pickles, i ha' made up my mind--i ha' made it up quite," she said. "well?" asked pickles. "you gave me three days, pickles, and the time 'ull be up to-morrow. well, i'll go to prison 'stead o' peter harris. i ha' that in my mind which 'ull make it come uncommon light ter me. i'll go to prison 'stead o' he." chapter xxx. what was harris to her? pickles went up to the very small room where he slept, threw himself on his bed, and fell a-wondering. for the first time in his life he was completely at sea. what _did_ cinderella mean? for a whole month now she had been his special charge. he had rescued her; he had kept her in the safe shelter of his mother's house; he had been, he considered, very kind indeed to cinderella. what a fate she would have had but for him! sent to prison for a crime of which she was absolutely innocent, her whole future disgraced, blighted, ruined! all the time while he had been hunting up harris, and bringing his ingenious little mind to bear down the full weight of his crime upon the guilty man, he had thought that no amount of gratitude on cinderella's part--nay, even a whole lifetime of devotion--could scarcely repay all she owed him. but now he kicked his legs impatiently and said to himself that it was enough to provoke the best-natured boy in the universe. after all his trouble, all his hard thoughts and anxious reflections, here was this tiresome cinderella refusing to be set free. he had, as he expressed it, nailed his man; he had put the noose round him, and all he had to do was to tighten it, and sue would be free and harris sent to prison. but without sue's aid he could not do this, and sue most emphatically to-night had refused his aid. she would go to prison herself, but she would not betray harris. what did the girl mean? what was this cowardly harris to her that she should risk so much and suffer so sorely for his sake? how she had dreaded prison! how very, very grateful she had been to him for saving her! but now she was willing to go there, willing to bear the unmerited punishment, the lifelong disgrace. why? pickles, think hard as he would, could get no answer to solve this difficulty. true, she had said she had something in her mind which would lighten the prison fare and the prison life. what was it? pickles could stand it no longer; he must go and consult his mother. he ran downstairs. mrs. price had not yet gone to bed. pickles sat down beside her by the fire, and laid his curly red head in her lap. "mother," he said, "this 'ere detective's foiled at last." "what's up now, jamie, boy?" asked the mother. pickles told her. he described how he had all but brought the crime home to harris; how he had proved to sue that harris was the guilty party; but that now sue, after all his tremendous trouble, had refused to identify him. she would go to prison, she said; she would not tell on harris. "i don't understand it one bit, mother," he said in conclusion. "but i do, jamie, my boy," answered mrs. price, tears filling her kind eyes. "i understand it very well. it means just this--that sue, dear child, is very noble." pickles opened his eyes very wide. "then, mother," he began, "cinderella is----" and then he stopped. "your cinderella, whom you rescued, is a real little heroine, jamie; but she must not go to prison. we must do something for her. she has been with me for a whole month now, and i never came across a more upright little soul. you surely have not been frightening her with the base idea that we would give her up, my boy?" pickles colored and hung his head. "i own, mother," he said, "that i did put a little bit of the torture screw to bear on sue. i didn't mean really as she should go to prison; but i thought as a small dose of fright might make her tell on that harris. i do think that peter harris is about the meanest character i ever come across, and i'd like _him_ to go to prison wery well indeed, mother dear." "if he's guilty, believe me he's not a very happy man, my lad. my own feeling is that 'tis best to leave all punishment to the god against whom we sin. but about sue? she must not sleep with the notion that she's to go to prison. i have a great mind to go to her now." "oh! but, mother, mayn't i tell her my own self? 'twas i as rescued her. she's my own cinderella, after all, mother dear; and i'd real enjoy telling her. she's asleep hours ago now, mother." "well, lad, see and have it out with the child before you go to work in the morning, and then i'll have a talk with her afterwards." chapter xxxi. a stern resolve. but sue was not asleep. she had quite made up her mind now as to her line of action. there was no longer even a particle of lingering doubt in her brave little soul; she was innocent, but as the sin which was committed must be punished, she would bear the punishment; she would go to prison instead of harris. prison would not be so bad if she went there innocent. yes, sue would certainly go to prison. the next day she would consult mrs. price, and take the proper steps to deliver herself up to the police. she would go to the pawnbroker's shop and say to him, "i am the little girl in whose pocket you found that lovely diamond locket. i am very sorry i hid from you so long, but now i have come back, and you can send for the police. i will promise not to run away again when they are taking me to prison." this was sue's resolve, but first she intended to do something else. it was because of this something else that she lay awake now; it was because of this almost passionate longing and desire that she lay with her eyes wide open. she was going to put on her disguise once more; just once again, before she was put in prison, she would wander free and unrestrained into the streets. but she must do this very, very early in the morning, and she feared that if she closed her eyes she would sleep over the right time. it was now march, and the days were lengthening. she rose before the dawn, put on again some portion of the remarkable costume she had worn the day before, and went out. yes, she was going to prison. she was most likely going to prison that very day. but before she was locked up she would visit harris's house. she would steal into his rooms to take one look--one long last look for how many weary months--at giles. she knew the ways of this tenement house well. she had nothing to do but walk up the stairs and lift the latch of harris's room and go in. some of the neighbors locked their room doors at night. but susan remembered with satisfaction that harris never did so. it was quite dark when she set off, for she knew she had a very long walk from great anvill street to westminster. chapter xxxii. an unexpected accident. by dint asking her way more than once, of some of the very policemen whom she dreaded, sue found herself at last in the old, well-remembered neighborhood. she passed the door of the house where her mother had died and where she had been so happy with giles, and went on quickly to the other house where connie and harris lived. the house door stood open, as was its wont. sue mounted the stairs; with trembling hands she lifted the latch of harris's room. yes, as she had trusted, it was only on the latch. she stooped down, unfastened her shoes, and took them off; then she stole into the room. there were two bedrooms, besides a sitting-room, in harris's portion of the house. in one of the bedrooms slept harris, in the other his daughter, and in the little sitting-room lay the lame boy. thus sue found herself at once in the presence of her little brother. her heart beat high. how easily she had accomplished her purpose! how good god was to her! stealing over on tiptoes, she knelt down by giles. there was scarcely any light as yet; but a little streamed in from the badly curtained window. this little had sought out giles, and lingered lovingly round his delicate face and graceful head; he looked ethereal with this first soft light kissing him. sue bent down very close indeed. she dared not breathe on his face. she scarcely dared draw her own breath in her fear of waking him; but she took his gentle image more firmly than ever into her heart of hearts: it was to cheer her and comfort her during long, long months of prison life. as she bent over him in an ecstasy of love and longing, giles stirred. instantly sue hid herself behind a curtain: here she could see without being seen. the lame boy stirred again and opened his eyes. he looked peaceful; perhaps he had had a happy dream. "i think sue 'ull soon now have found that cottage in the country," he said aloud. then he turned over and, still smiling, went to sleep again. sue's eyes filled with tears. but the light was getting stronger; any moment harris might rise. though she would go to prison for harris, yet she felt that she could not bring herself to meet him. yes, she must go away with an added weight in her poor, faithful little heart. she stole downstairs, and out into the street. yes, it was very hard to bear the sight of giles, to hear those longing words from the lips of giles, and yet go away to meet unjust punishment for perhaps two long years. still, it never entered into sue's head to go back from her resolve, or to save herself by betraying another. her head was very full of bible lore, and she compared herself now to one of those three young men who had gone into a fiery furnace for the cause of right and duty. "jesus christ wor with them, jest as he'll be with me," she said to herself as she crossed westminster bridge. yes, brave little girl, you were to go through a fiery furnace, but not the one you thought was being prepared for you. sue's trouble, swift and terrible, but in an unlooked-for form, was on her even now. just as she had got over the bridge, and was about to cross a very wide thoroughfare, some lumbering wagons came thundering up. they turned sharp round a corner, and the poor child, weak and giddy from her morning's most unwonted exertion, suddenly found herself turning faint. she was in the middle of the crossing, the wagons were upon her, but she could not run. she had scarcely time to throw up her arms, to utter one piercing cry of terror, before she was thrown to the ground. she had a horrible sensation of her life being crushed out of her, of every bone being broken; then followed peace and unconsciousness. one of the wagons had gone partly over her; one leg was broken. she was carried to the accident ward at st. thomas's hospital close by. chapter xxxiii. a pointed question. neither had mrs. price slept well. all night long she either had fitful and broken dreams, in which her small guest, sue, constantly figured; or she lay with her eyes open, thinking of her. she was surprised at the child's resolve. she recognized an heroic soul under that plain and girlish exterior. in the morning she got up rather earlier than usual, and instead of going directly downstairs, as was her custom, she went up to sue's attic. she had promised her eccentric young son to allow him to tell his own tale in his own way; but she meant to comfort sue with some specially loving and kind greeting. having a true lady's heart, she knew how to give sue a very cheering word, and she went upstairs with that heart full. of course there was no sue in the little chamber. the bed had been lain in, but was now cold and unoccupied. mrs. price went downstairs, considerably puzzled and disturbed. she sent for pickles and told him. she was full of fear at sue's disappearance, and told the heedless boy that she blamed him. "you did wrong, my lad--you did very wrong," she said. "you gave the poor thing to understand that she was to be put in prison, and now doubtless she has gone to deliver herself up." "no, mother. she only went out to have a little exercise. cinderella 'ull be back in an hour or so," answered the boy. but he did not speak with his usual assurance and raillery. the fact was, the calculations in his shrewd little brain were upset by sue's disappearance. he felt disturbed, perplexed, and annoyed. his mother being really displeased with him was a novel experience to pickles. she blamed herself much for having allowed him his own way in this matter, and the moment breakfast was over, went out to the nearest police-station to relate sue's story. pickles stayed in until noon; then he also went out. he had cheered himself until this hour with the hope that sue had only gone out for a walk. notwithstanding all the improbabilities of his poor, frightened cinderella venturing to show herself in the street, he had clung firmly to this idea; but when the neighboring clock struck twelve he was obliged to abandon it. he was obliged to admit to his own little puzzled heart that it was on no ordinary walk that sue had gone. remorse now seized him in full measure. he could not bear the house; he must vent his feelings in exercise. for the first time in his sunny and healthy young life he walked along the streets a defeated and unhappy boy. suddenly, however, a thought occurred to him. he stood still when it flashed across his fertile brain. then, with a cheerful shout, which caused the passers-by to turn their heads and smile, he set off running as fast as his feet would carry him. hope would never be long absent from his horizon, and once again he was following it joyfully. he was on his way now to harris's house. he meant to pay pretty connie a visit, and when with her he would put to her a pointed question. it was nearly three o'clock when he reached westminster. a few minutes later he found himself on the landing outside connie's rooms. here, however, he was again a little puzzled, for he wanted to see connie and not to see giles. taking a long time about it, he managed to set the closed door ajar. he looked in. connie and giles were both within. connie was mending her father's socks; giles was reading aloud to her. neither of them had noticed the slight creaking noise he had made in opening the door. he ventured on a very slight cough. this sound was heard; the reading ceased. "come in," said connie. this he must not do. he waited an instant, then creaked the door again. "dear, dear! i made certain i had shut that door," said connie. at this she rose unsuspiciously. "jest wait a minute, giles dear. i didn't catch that last bit." she ran to the door to put it to. pickles placed his foot in her way. the obstacle caused her to look into the passage. there a boy, very red by nature, and with his natural color now much intensified by hard running, stood awaiting her. he pointed to the door, put his finger to his lips, then rushed down the first flight of stairs, where he turned round, and beckoned to her to follow him. "i'll be back in a minute, giles," said connie. she had ready wit enough to perceive at a glance that pickles had something to say to her which he did not wish giles to hear. closing the door behind her, she ran downstairs. pickles could have hugged her in his gratitude. "ain't you a perfect duck of a darlin'?" he said, gazing hard and full into her face. "what do you want me for, pickles?" asked connie. "fur one or two things of much private importance. first, tell me, how is the little lame chap as is fretting fur his sister wot is kept in the country?" "he is not so well, pickles; he is not so well as he was. pickles, i don't believe that story about sue being in the country." "you don't believe me when i opens my lips to give utterance to the words of gospel truth!" replied pickles. but his red face grew a shade redder, and his full, bold gaze was not quite so steady as usual. "why, surely, pickles, _you_ ain't going to be troubled wid nerves!" he said to himself. connie, watching anxiously, entreated in her softest tones: "dear pickles, you might trust me. i should like to know, and i won't tell giles." "ay, ay, that's a woman's curiosity; but the misfortune is as it can't be gratified. no, connie. you are as rare and pretty a bit of woman as hiver i clapped heyes on. but fur hall that you ain't going to come hover this yere boy. when i tells you, connie, that sue is hin the country, please believe as she _his_ in that year health-giving place. when 'tis conwenient fur me to confide in you farther, why, i'll do it. that time ain't at present. in the meantime, ef you want to real help them who ere in difficulty, you will let me know widout any more wasting o' precious time where yer father, peter harris, is working to-day." "oh pickles! wot do you want wid him?" "nothink to hurt you, pretty one. now, will you speak? "he's at messrs ---- in ---- street," replied connie. "thank yer; and now i'm off. ef you'll listen to the words o' solemn wisdom, and be guided in that same, you'll not mention this stolen interview to little giles--bless the little chap! you keep up his heart, connie. as soon as hiver this yer young man can manage it, sue shall come home. lor', now! ain't the world strange and difficult to live in? wot 'ull bring joy to one 'ull give pain to t'other, but the cause o' right must win the day. well, good-bye, connie. i'll wery like look in soon again." chapter xxxiv. pickles to the fore again. connie went back to giles, and pickles, having obtained the information which he desired, sped as fast as his feet could carry him down the street. once more his spirits were high, and hope was before him. "i may save you, you most obstinate and tiresome cinderella," he said to himself. "but oh, _wot_ a mistake gels are! why hever those weak and misguided beings was allowed to be is a puzzlement too great fur me." but though pickles talked even to himself in this light and careless vein, there was (and he knew it) a pain in his heart--a pain joined to an admiration for sue, which would have made him willing to fight to the very death in her behalf. the day, however, had been spent while he was rushing about, and by the time he reached the place where connie had directed him to seek her father, the workmen were putting by their tools and preparing to go home. pickles followed harris down the street. harris was talking to and walking with one of his fellow-workmen, and pickles did not care to accost him except when he was alone. at the corner, however, of the next street the two parted; and then the boy, putting his face into grave and serious order, ran lightly after harris. when he addressed him his very voice trembled. "mr. harris, i see'd you coming out of that yer shop. i'm in much perplexity and trouble in my mind, and i thought the sight of you and a talk wid you might maybe set me up." "you thought wrong, then," said harris, replying in his gruffest voice, "for i'm in a mortal bit of a hurry, and i'm in no humor to listen to no chaff, so get away." "oh, mr. harris! i'll endeavor to run by yer side for a minute or two. mr. harris, wot does yer think? that little sue wot i tolled yer on--why, she has discovered who the guilty party is. she have found out who really stole the locket and put it into her pocket." "she have!" said harris. he was so astonished and taken by surprise that he now stood still. he stood quite still, gazing helplessly at pickles, while his weather-beaten face grew pale. "'tis gospel truth as i'm telling yer," continued pickles, fixing his own light-blue eyes full on his victim. "sue knows hall about it--the whole thing; the great and awful meanness have been made plain to her. yes, she knows all, sue does; but, mr. harris----" "yes; wot have i to say to this tale? i'm in a hurry--tearing hurry--i tell yer." "yes, mr. harris; i won't keep yer. sue knows, but sue, she won't betray. i know who did it," she said, "but i won't tell on him. he lent me a shilling once. he is kind to my little brother wot is lame. i know wot he did, but i won't never tell, i'll go to prison 'stead of he." harris's color had returned. he now walked so fast that pickles had to run to keep up with him. suddenly, seeing a passing omnibus, he hailed it, and in a second was on the roof. he did not glance at pickles. in reply to his tale he had not answered by a single word. chapter xxxv. the wings are growing. connie went back to giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading. he was going through the _pilgrim's progress_ to her, reading short sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to exert himself for long at a time. "connie, wot were that as i read last?" connie colored. "you weren't listening," said giles reproachfully. "it wor a most beautiful bit. but you didn't hear me, connie." "i wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned connie. "i'll listen now wid hall my might, dear giles." "ah! but i'm tired now," said giles; "and besides, i want to talk 'bout something else, connie." "well." "sue have been a whole month in the country to-day--rayther more than a month. i don't understand it at all. i never thought as she could stay so long away from me. i suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we want do take a powerful long time to find. it has been a long time--wery, wery long--but have i been patient 'bout sue all this long time, connie?" "yes, indeed, dear giles." "oh! i'm glad, fur i've tried to be. then, connie, wot i'm thinking is that ef sue don't soon come back--ef she don't soon find that 'ere cottage--why, i won't want it, connie. sue 'ull come back and find me--gone." "gone!" echoed connie. "do you mean dead? oh giles! you're not ill enough to die." "yes, connie, i think i am. i'm so real desperate weak sometimes that i don't like even to move a finger. i used to be hungry, too, but now i never cares to eat. besides, connie dear----" "yes, giles," answered connie. "those wings that i told you of--why, i often seem to feel them flutter inside of me. i told you before, connie, that when they was full grown, why, i'd fly away. i think they are growing wery fast. i'll want no cottage in the country now. i'm going away to a much better place, ain't i, connie?" "oh! but, giles, i don't want to think that--i don't want to," answered connie, the tears raining down her cheeks. "'tis real good fur me, though, connie. i used to pine sore fur the country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be dull--scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. now, in heaven there's no winter. 'a land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it, 'and never-withering flowers.' so you see, connie, heaven must be a sight better than the country, and of course i'd rayther go there; only i'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout sue." "yes, i wish as sue was home," said connie. "connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me now? i'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of that cottage and finds me gone." "i'll look fur her; i will find her," said connie with sudden energy. then she rose and drew down the blinds. "i'll find sue ef i can, giles; and now you will go to sleep." "will you sing to me? when you sing, and i drop off to sleep listening, i allers dream arterwards of heaven." "what shall i sing?" "'there is a land of pure delight.'" chapter xxxvi. a crisis. connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. she had gone through a good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it seemed to those who knew her that connie had quite the prettiest face in all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years, and a little of its soft plumpness had left it. connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for giles and of anxiety with regard to sue. she would keep her promise to the little boy--she would find sue. as she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors passed by, looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. she was quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. the neighbors guessed the reason. it was all little giles. little giles was soon "goin' aw'y." "it do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his nowhere to be found." just then, who should enter the house but kind dr. deane. he stopped when he saw connie. "i am going up to giles," he said. "how is the little chap?" "worse--much worse," said connie, the tears gathering in her eyes. "no news of his sister, i suppose?" "no, sir--none." "i am sorry for that--they were such a very attached pair. i'll run up and see the boy, and bring you word what i think about him." the doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. while he was away connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. when the doctor reappeared she did not even ask how giles was. kind dr. deane looked at her; his face was wonderfully grave. after a minute he said: "i think, connie, i'd find that little sister as quickly as i could. the boy is very, very weak. if there is one desire now in his heart, however, it is just to see sue once more." "i ha' give him my word," said connie. "i'm goin' to find sue ef--ef i never see giles agin." "but you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "have you no plan in your head? you cannot find a girl who is lost as sue is lost in this great london without some clue." "i ain't got any clue," said connie, "but i'll try and find pickles." "whoever is pickles?" asked the doctor. "'e knows--i'm sartin sure," said connie. "i'll try and find him, and then----" "well, don't leave giles alone. is there a neighbor who would sit with him?" "i won't leave him alone," said connie. the doctor then went away. connie was about to return to giles, if only for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the red-headed pickles appeared in sight. his hair was on end; his face was pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the same gay-hearted pickles whom connie had last met with. when he saw connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him together. "now must i give her a blow, or must i not?" thought pickles to himself. "it do seem 'ard. there's naught, a'most, i wouldn't do for pore cinderella; but w'en i have to plant a dart in the breast of that 'ere most beauteous crittur, i feels as it's bitter 'ard. w'y, she 'ud make me a most captiwatin' wife some day. now, pickles, my boy, wot have you got in the back o' your 'ead? is it in love you be--an' you not fourteen years of age? oh, fie, pickles! what would yer mother s'y ef she knew?" pickles slapped his hand with a mighty thump against his boyish breast. "that's the w'y to treat nonsense," he said aloud. "be'ave o' yerself, pickles--fie for shame, pickles! that 'ere beauteous maid is to be worshipped from afar--jest like a star. i do declare i'm turnin' po-ettical!" "pickles!" called connie at this moment. "stop!" "pickles be 'ere," replied the youth, drawing up before connie and making a low bow. "giles is worse, pickles," said connie, "an' wot's to be done?" pickles's round face grew grave. "is 'e wery bad?" he asked. "so bad that he'll soon go up to god," said connie. her eyes filled with tears; they rolled down her cheeks. "bright as dimants they be," thought the boy as he watched her. "precious tears! i could poetise 'bout them." "pickles," said connie again, "i have made giles a promise. he sha'n't die without seeing sue. i'm sartin sure, pickles, that you could take me to sue now--i'm convinced 'bout it--and i want you to do it." "why do you think that?" asked pickles. "'cos i do," said connie. "'cos of the way you've looked and the way you've spoken. oh, dear pickles, take me to her now; let me bring her back to little giles to-night!" once again that terribly mournful expression, so foreign to pickles's freckled face, flitted across it. "there!" he said, giving himself a thump. "w'en i could i wouldn't, and now w'en i would i can't. i don't know where she be. she's lost--same as you were lost--w'ile back. she's disappeared, and none of us know nothink about her." "oh! is she really lost? how terrible that is!" said connie. "yus, she's lost. p'r'aps there's one as could find her. connie, i 'ate beyond all things on 'arth to fright yer or say an unkind thing to yer; but to me, connie, you're a star that shines afar. yer'll fergive the imperence of my poetry, but it's drawn from me by your beauty." "don't talk nonsense now, pickles," said connie. "things are too serious. we must find sue--i must keep my promise." "can you bear a bit o' pine?" said pickles suddenly. "pain?" said connie. "i've had a good deal lately. yes, i think--i think i can bear it." "mind yer," said pickles, "it's this w'y. i know w'y sue left yer, and i know w'y she ain't come back. it's true she 'aven't give herself hup yet, although she guv me to understand as she were 'bout to go to prison." "to prison?" said connie, springing forward and putting her hand on pickles's shoulder. "sue--the most honest gel in all the world--go to prison?" "oh yes," said pickles, "yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes into a pawnshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the solemn truth, connie." connie's face was very white. "i don't believe it," she said. "yer don't?" cried pickles. "but i were there at the time. but for me she would ha' been locked up long ago. but i tuk pity on her--'avin' my own suspicions. i hid her and disguised her. wot do yer think i come 'ere for so often but jest to comfort the poor thing an' bring her news o' giles? then all of a suddn't my suspicions seemed confirmed. i guessed wot i see is workin' in your mind--that some one else done it an' putt the blame on 'er. oh, i'm a born detective. i putt my wits in soak, an' soon i spotted the guilty party. bless yer, connie! ye're right--sue be honest--honest as the day--noble, too--more nobler nor most folk. pore sue! pore, plain cinderella! oh, my word! it's beauteous inside she be--an' you're beauteous outside. outside beauty is captiwatin', but the hinner wears best." "go on," said connie; "tell me wot else you 'ave in yer mind." "it's this: yer may own up to it, an' there's no use beatin' about the bush. the guilty party wot stole the locket an' transferred it by sleight-of-'and to poor sue is no less a person than yer own father, connie harris." connie fell back, deadly pale. "no--no!" she said. "no--no! i am sartin sure 'tain't that way." "yus, but it be that way--i tell yer it be. you ax 'im yerself; there's no time for muddlin' and a-hidin' o' the truth. you ax the man hisself." "father!" said connie. "father!" harris, wrangling with another workman, was now seen approaching. when he perceived his daughter and pickles, his first impulse was to dart away down a side-street; but pickles, that most astute young detective, was too sharp for him. "no," he said, rushing at the man and laying his hand on his shoulder. "giles is bad, an' we can't find sue no'ow, and yer must tell the truth." harris did not know why his heart thumped so heavily, and why a sort of wild terror came over him; but when connie also joined pickles, and raising her eyes to the rough man's face, said, "be it true or be it lies, you are my own father and i'll niver turn agin yer," her words had a most startling effect. harris trembled from head to foot. "s'y that agin, wench," he muttered. "you're mine--i'll not turn agin yer," said connie. "then why--wot 'ave i done to deserve a child like this? there, pickles! you know--and you ha' told connie--it's all the truth. there come a day w'en i wanted money, an' i were met by sore temptation. i tuk the dimant locket w'en the pawnbroker 'ad 'is back turned on me; but as i were leavin' the shop--sue bein' by my side--i suddenly saw him pokin' his finger into the place where it had been. i knew it were all up. i managed to slip the locket into sue's pocket, and made off. i ha' been near mad since--near mad since!" "small wonder!" said pickles. "an' do yer know that she 'ad made up her mind to go to prison 'stead o' you?" "you told me so," said harris--"at least you told me that she was goin' to prison instead o' the guilty party." "wull," said pickles, "yer own 'eart told yer 'oo was the guilty party." "that's true, youngster." "father," said connie, "we can't find sue anywhere, and giles is dying, and we must get her, and you must help." "help?" said harris. "yes, i'll help. i won't leave a stone unturned. she wanted to save me, knowing the truth. wull, i'll save and find her, knowin' the truth." "i will come with you," said connie. "i want to go wid yer; only wot am i to do with giles?" "don't worrit 'bout him," said pickles. "i'm 'ere to be o' sarvice to you, miss connie--and to you, sir, now as you 'ave come ter yer right mind." "then i will come with you, father," said connie. "we'll both go together and find sue." as pickles was entering the house he popped his head out again. "i forgot to mention," he said, "as hinquiries o' the most strict and dertective character 'ave been institooted by yer 'umble sarvant for poor cinderella--i mean sue. they've led to no results. there's nothing now but one o' the hospitals." it is very doubtful whether pickles believed himself the clue he had unexpectedly given to harris and connie, but certain it is that they immediately began their investigations in those quarters. from one hospital to another they went, until at last they found sue in bed in st. thomas's hospital--flushed, feverish, struggling still to hide her secret in order that when she was better she might save peter harris. the poor child was rather worse than usual that evening, and the surgeon who had set her leg was slightly anxious at her feverish symptoms. he said to the nurse who was taking charge of the little girl: "that child has a secret on her mind, and it is retarding her recovery. do you know anything about her?" "no, sir. it is very awkward," said the nurse, "but from the first she has refused to give her name, calling herself nothing but cinderella." "well," said the doctor, "but cinderella--she doesn't seem touched in the head?" "oh no," said the nurse; "it isn't that. she's the most sensible, patient child we have in the ward. but it's pitiful to see her when she thinks no one is listening. nothing comforts her but to hear big ben strike. she always cheers up at that, and murmurs something below her breath which no one can catch." "well, nurse," said the doctor, "the very best thing would be to relieve her mind--to get her to tell you who her people are, and to confide any secret which troubles her to you." "i will try," said the nurse. she went upstairs after her interview with the doctor, and bending over sue, took her hot hand and said gently: "i wish, little cinderella, you would tell me something about yourself." "there's naught to tell," said sue. "but--you'll forgive me--i am sure there is." "ef you was to ask me for ever, i wouldn't tell then," said sue. "ah! i guessed--there is something." "yes--some'ut--but i can't bear it--the woice in the air is so beautiful." "what voice?" asked the nurse, who feared that her little patient would suddenly become delirious. "it's big ben hisself is talkin' to me and to my darling, darling little brother." "oh! you have a little brother, cinderella?" "yus, a cripple. but don't ask me no more. the woice gives me strength, and i won't niver, niver tell." "what does big ben say? i don't understand." "no," said sue; "and p'r'aps ye're not wanted to understand. it's for me and for him, poor darling, that woice is a real comfort." the nurse left her little charge a few minutes afterwards. but before she went off duty she spoke to the night nurse, and confessed that she was anxious about the child, who ought to be recovering, and certainly would but for this great weight of trouble on her mind. all these things, which seemed in themselves unimportant, bore directly on immediate events; for when connie and harris arrived at st. thomas's hospital and made inquiries with regard to a little, freckled girl, with an honest face and sturdy figure, the hall porter went to communicate with one of the nurses, and the nurse he communicated with turned out to be the night nurse in the very ward where sue was lying--so suffering, so ill and sorely tried. now, the nurse, instead of sending word that this was not the hour for visiting patients, took the trouble to go downstairs herself and to interview connie and her father. connie gave a faithful description of sue, and then the nurse admitted that there was a little girl in the hospital who was now in the children's surgical ward. she had been brought in a day or two ago, having a broken leg, owing to a street accident. she was a very patient, good child, but there was something strange about her--nothing would induce her to tell her name. "then what do you call her?" asked harris. he was still full of inward tremors, for at that moment he was thinking that of all the sweet sights on earth, that sight would be little sue's plain face. "have yer no name for the pore child?" he repeated. "yes," said the nurse. "she calls herself cinderella." "it's sue! it's sue herself father! god has led us to her--and it's sue her very own self!" poor connie, who had borne up during so many adventures, who had faced the worst steadfastly and without fear, broke down utterly now. she flung herself into her father's arms and sobbed. "hush, wench hush!" said the rough man. "i am willin' to do hall that is necessary.--now then, nurse," he continued, "you see my gel--she's rather upset 'bout that pore cinderella upstairs. but 'ave yer nothing else to say 'bout her?" "she acts in a strange way," said the nurse. "the only thing that comforts her is the sound of big ben when he strikes the hour. and she did speak about a little cripple brother." "can us see her?" asked connie just then. "it is certainly against the rules, but--will you stay here for a few minutes and i'll speak to the ward superintendent?" the nurse went upstairs. she soon returned. "sister elizabeth has given you permission to come up and see the child for a few minutes. this, remember, is absolutely against the ordinary rules; but her case is exceptional, and if you can give her relief of mind, so much the better." then connie and her father followed the nurse up the wide, clean stairs, and down the wide, spotless-looking corridors, until they softly entered a room where many children were lying, some asleep, some tossing from side to side with pain. sue's little bed was the fifth from the door, and sue was lying on her back, listening intently, for big ben would soon proclaim the hour. she did not turn her head when the nurse and the two who were seeking her entered the ward; but by-and-by a voice, not big ben's, sounded on her ear, and connie flung herself by her side and covered her hand with kisses. "you don't think, sue, do yer," said connie, "that _us_ could stop seekin' yer until we found yer?" sue gave a startled cry. "connie--connie! oh connie! 'ow is giles?" "'e wants yer more than anything in all the world." "then he--he's--still alive?" "yus, he's still alive; but he wants yer. he thought you was in the country, gettin' pretty rooms for you and him. but oh, sue! he's goin' to a more beautiful country now." sue didn't cry. she was about to say something, when harris bent forward. "god in 'eaven bless yer!" he said in a husky voice. "god in 'eaven give back yer strength for that noble deed yer ha' done for me an' mine! but it's all at an end now, susan--all at an end--for i myself 'ave tuk the matter in 'and, an' hall you 'as to do is to get well as fast as ever yer can for the sake o' giles." "you mustn't excite her any more to-night," said the nurse then, coming forward; "seeing," she added, "that you have given the poor little thing relief. you can come again to-morrow; but now she must stay quiet." late as the hour was when harris and connie left st. thomas's hospital, harris turned to connie. "i've some'ut to do--and to-night. shall i take yer 'ome first, or wull yer come with me?" "oh, i will come with you, father," said connie. "wull then, come along." they walked far--almost as far as cheapside. connie could not imagine why her father was taking her into a certain dingy street, and why he suddenly stopped at a door which had not yet been shut for the night. "i thought as there were a chance of findin' him up," he said. "come right in, gel." connie entered, and the next minute harris was addressing the pawnbroker from whom he had stolen the locket. "i 'ave a word to say with you," he remarked; and then he related the circumstances of that day, several weeks ago now. "but we found it," said the pawnbroker, "in the pocket of the young gel." "it was i as put it there," said harris. "it was i--the meanest wretch on 'arth. but i've come to my senses at last. you can lock me up ef yer like. i'll stay 'ere; i won't even leave the shop ef yer want to deliver the real thief over to justice." the pawnbroker stared at the man; then he looked at connie. there is no saying what he might have done; but connie's face, with its pleading expression, was enough to disarm any one. "the fact is," he began "this sort o' thing ought to be punished, or however could poor folks live? but it's a queer thing. when the young gel vanished, as it seemed, into the depths of the 'arth, and i 'ad got my property back, i tuk no further trouble. in course, now that you 'ave delivered yerself up, it seems a'most fair that the law should take its course." "that's wot i think," said harris. "make a short job of it, man. call in a constable; 'e can take me to bow street to-night." "no 'urry, man," said the pawnbroker. "i want yer to tell me some'ut more. is that other little party alive or dead? it seems to me as though the 'arth must 'ave swallered her up." "i will tell you," said connie; and she did relate sue's story--as much as she knew of it--and with such pathos that even that pawnbroker, one of the hardest of men, felt a queer softness about his heart. "wull," he said--"wull, it's a queer world! to think o' that child plannin' things out like that! and ef she ad come to me, i might ha' believed her, too. wull now, she be a fine little crittur. an' s'pose"--he glanced at harris--"i don't prosecute you, there's no call, to my way o' thinkin'. and the fact is, i'm too busy to be long out of the shop. don't you steal no more, neighbor. you ha' got off dirt-cheap this time, but don't you steal no more." chapter xxxvii. the happy gathering. there came a day in the early spring of that year when a great many pleasant things happened to the people who have been mentioned in this story. connie's room was very bright with flowers--spring flowers--which had been sent to her all the way from eastborough by mrs. cricket. quantities of primroses were placed in a huge bowl, and the sun came feebly in at the window and seemed to kiss and bless the flowers. there were also some early buttercups and quantities of violets. giles was neither better nor worse, but perhaps on this day he was a little bit on the side of better. it was so beautiful to think that sue was coming back! oh, this was a wonderful day! sue was well again; connie was happy; harris was never tired of doing all he could both for connie and giles; and other people were happy too, for sue's return was to be marked by a sort of holiday--a sort of general feast. to this feast was invited--first, mrs. anderson; then ronald, who happened to be staying in london and was deeply excited at the thought of seeing connie once more; and also dear father john, who would not have missed such an occasion for the wide world. of course, pickles could not be left out of such a gathering; but he could scarcely be considered a guest, for did he not belong, so to speak, to the family, and was not dear sue, in particular, his special property? mrs. anderson supplied the good things for the feast. this she insisted upon. so connie spread quite a lordly board--cold meats not a few, some special delicacies for giles, and a splendid frosted cake with the word "cinderella" written in pink fairy writing across the top. this special cake had been made by mrs. price, and pickles had brought it and laid it with immense pride on a dish in the centre of the table. "yus," said connie, "it do look purty, don't it? wot with good things to eat, and wot with flowers, it's quite wonderful." when everything was arranged, connie went into a little room to put on once again her dark-blue dress, and to unplait her thick hair and allow it to fall over her shoulders. "it's for ronald," she said. "ronald wouldn't know me without my hair down." then, one by one, the visitors made their appearance--father john, who sat down by giles's side and held his hand, and by his mere presence gave the boy the greatest possible comfort; and pickles, whose face was shining with hard rubbing and soap and water, and whose red hair stuck upright all over his head. then mrs. anderson came in and sat down, and gave a gentle look first at giles and then at connie; and connie felt that she loved her better than ever, and giles wondered if he would meet many with faces like hers in heaven. in short, every one had arrived at last except the little heroine. but hark! there was a sound outside as though some vehicle had stopped at the door. giles's breath came fast. there were steps on the stairs, and two porters from the hospital carried sue in between them. "oh, i can really walk," she said. "and oh, giles--giles!--please put me down, porter; i really, really can walk." "jest as himpatient as ever, cinderella!" said pickles, who always tried, as was his custom, to be specially funny in pathetic times. sue glanced at him, but could not speak just then. there are moments in our lives when no words will come. she went up to giles and hid her face on his pillow. poor little sue had a bitterly hard fight with herself, for that face, which belonged not to earth, unnerved her, notwithstanding the rapture of seeing it once again. but giles himself was the first to recover composure. "we are 'avin' such a feast!" he said. "an' it's all _so_ beautiful! now then, sue i do 'ope as ye're 'ungry." after that ronald spoke and made the others laugh; and sue bustled about, just as though she were at home, and connie helped her; and very soon they all crowded round the table, except giles, who had his dainty morsels brought to him by sue's own hands. thus they ate and laughed and were merry, although perhaps the laughter was a little subdued and the merriment a trifle forced. it was when the feast was quite over that father john spoke a few words--just a very few--about the love and goodness of god, and how he had brought his wandering sheep home again to the fold, and how he had helped connie in dark times, and ronald in dark times, and sue in dark times. "and he is helping giles, and will be with him to the end," said the street preacher. "and now," he added, "i think giles is very tired and would like to be all alone with sue. suppose, neighbors, we go into the next room." the opening of the door of the next room was one of the surprises which had been planned by connie and her father. as he was now earning such really excellent wages, and as he had taken the pledge and meant to keep it, he felt he was entitled to another room. it was neatly furnished. there was a fire burning in the grate, and there were white muslin curtains to the windows. connie spoke of it with great pride as the "drawing-room," and pickles assured her that even to set foot in that room was enough to make connie a "lydy" on the spot. when they were alone sue and giles talked softly one to the other. "the blessed woice," said sue, "'ave been with me all the w'y." "and with me," said giles. "you won't go jest yet, giles," said sue. "wery soon--but not quite yet," he answered. sue smiled and kissed his hand, and they talked as those who have been long parted, and know they must be parted soon again, will talk, when heart meets heart. in the other room people were not more cheerful, but at least more glad. "there is nothing left to wish for," said pickles. "it's just the best thing in all the world for little giles to get quite well up in heaven. ain't it now?" he added, looking at father john. "yes," said father john very briefly. then he turned to connie. "you must never forget all that you have lived through, connie," he said. "you'll be a better and a braver girl just because of these dark days." "she's the best wench on 'arth," said harris. suddenly ronald sprang forward and spoke. "uncle stephen said i was to tell you he has bought the cottage in the country where mrs. cricket lives and he's adding to it and making it most beautiful, and dear mrs. cricket is to be housekeeper, and you're all to come down in the summer--all of you--even giles; and giles is to stay there as long as he lives. uncle stephen is a splendid man," continued ronald. "it was after him my darling v. c. father took when he became so great and brave and manly, and i love uncle stephen better than any one except father. father hasn't come home yet, and perhaps i won't see him until giles sees his father. but i'm a very, very happy boy, and it's all because of uncle stephen. now, the rest of you can be happy too in my cottage--uncle stephen says it _is_ my cottage--in the beautiful country." * * * * * these things came to pass, and even giles went for a short time to the beautiful country, where the flowers grew in such abundance, and where the birds sang all day long. "now you can guess," he said to sue after they had been there a fortnight or more, "some little bit about the joys of the land of pure delight." * * * * * transcriber's notes . this book makes extensive use of dialect. original spellings of words in dialect have been retained. . obvious typographical errors have been corrected. . table of contents added in this text was not present in original edition. . one word has been changed from the original to correctly identify the speaker, agnes, replying to connie's question: p. original: "wot sort?" asked connie. replacement: "wot sort?" asked agnes. the ground-ash by mary russell mitford amongst the many pleasant circumstances attendant on a love of flowers--that sort of love which leads us into the woods for the earliest primrose, or to the river side for the latest forget-me-not, and carries us to the parching heath or the watery mere to procure for the cultivated, or, if i may use the expression, the _tame_ beauties of the parterre, the soil that they love; amongst the many gratifications which such pursuits bring with them, such as seeing in the seasons in which it shows best, the prettiest, coyest, most unhackneyed scenery, and taking, with just motive enough for stimulus and for reward, drives and walks which approach to fatigue, without being fatiguing; amongst all the delights consequent on a love of flowers, i know none greater than the half unconscious and wholly unintended manner in which such expeditions make us acquainted with the peasant children of remote and out-of-the-way regions, the inhabitants of the wild woodlands and still wilder commons of the hilly part of the north of hampshire, which forms so strong a contrast with this sunny and populous county of berks, whose very fields are gay and neat as gardens, and whose roads are as level and even as a gravel-walk. two of the most interesting of these flower-formed acquaintances, were my little friends harry and bessy leigh. every year i go to the everley woods to gather wild lilies of the valley. it is one of the delights that may--the charming, ay, and the merry month of may, which i love as fondly as ever that bright and joyous season was loved by our older poets--regularly brings in her train; one of those rational pleasures in which (and it is the great point of superiority over pleasures that are artificial and worldly) there is no disappointment. about four years ago, i made such a visit. the day was glorious, and we had driven through lanes perfumed by the fresh green birch, with its bark silvery and many-tinted, and over commons where the very air was loaded with the heavy fragrance of the furze, an odour resembling in richness its golden blossoms, just as the scent of the birch is cool, refreshing, and penetrating, like the exquisite colour of its young leaves, until we reached the top of the hill, where, on one side, the enclosed wood, where the lilies grow, sank gradually, in an amphitheatre of natural terraces, to a piece of water at the bottom; whilst on the other, the wild open heath formed a sort of promontory overhanging a steep ravine, through which a slow and sluggish stream crept along amongst stunted alders, until it was lost in the deep recesses of lidhurst forest, over the tall trees of which we literally looked down. we had come without a servant; and on arriving at the gate of the wood with neither human figure nor human habitation in sight, and a high-blooded and high-spirited horse in the phaeton, we began to feel all the awkwardness of our situation. my companion, however, at length espied a thin wreath of smoke issuing from a small clay-built hut thatched with furze, built against the steepest part of the hill, of which it seemed a mere excrescence, about half way down the declivity; and, on calling aloud, two children, who had been picking up dry stumps of heath and gorse, and collecting them in a heap for fuel at the door of their hovel, first carefully deposited their little load, and then came running to know what we wanted. if we had wondered to see human beings living in a habitation, which, both for space and appearance, would have been despised by a pig of any pretension, as too small and too mean for his accommodation, so we were again surprised at the strange union of poverty and content evinced by the apparel and countenances of its young inmates. the children, bareheaded and barefooted, and with little more clothing than one shabby-looking garment, were yet as fine, sturdy, hardy, ruddy, sunburnt urchins, as one should see on a summer day. they were clean, too: the stunted bit of raiment was patched, but not ragged; and when the girl, (for, although it was rather difficult to distinguish between the brother and sister, the pair were of different sexes,) when the bright-eyed, square-made, upright little damsel clasped her two brown hands together, on the top of her head, pressed down her thick curls, looking at us and listening to us with an air of the most intelligent attention that returned our curiosity with interest; and when the boy, in answer to our inquiry if he could hold a horse, clutched the reins with his small fingers, and planted himself beside our high-mettled steed with an air of firm determination, that seemed to say, "i'm your master! run away if you dare!" we both of us felt that they were subjects for a picture, and that, though sir joshua might not have painted them, gainsborough and our own collins would. but besides their exceeding picturesqueness, the evident content, and helpfulness, and industry of these little creatures, was delightful to look at and to think of. in conversation they were at once very civil and respectful (bessy dropping her little curtsy, and harry putting his hand to the lock of hair where the hat should have been, at every sentence they uttered) and perfectly frank and unfearing. in answer to our questions, they told us that "father was a broom-maker, from the low country; that he had come to these parts and married mother, and built their cottage, because houses were so scarce hereabouts, and because of its convenience to the heath; that they had done very well till the last winter, when poor father had had the fever for five months, and they had had much ado to get on; but that father was brave again now, and was building _another house_ (house!!) larger and finer, upon squire benson's lands: the squire had promised them a garden from the waste, and mother hoped to keep a pig. they were trying to get all the money they could to buy the pig; and what his honour had promised them for holding the horse, was all to be given to mother for that purpose." it was impossible not to be charmed with these children. we went again and again to the everley wood, partly to gather lilies, partly to rejoice in the trees with their young leaves so beautiful in texture as well as in colour, but chiefly to indulge ourselves in the pleasure of talking to the children, of adding something to their scanty stock of clothing, (bessy ran as fast as her feet could carry her to the clear pool at the bottom of the wood, to look at herself in her new bonnet,) and of assisting in the accumulations of the grand pig savings' bank, by engaging harry to hold the horse, and bessy to help fill the lily basket. this employment, by showing that the lilies had a money value, put a new branch of traffic into the heads of these thoughtful children, already accustomed to gather heath for their father's brooms, and to collect the dead furze which served as fuel to the family. after gaining permission of the farmer who rented the wood, and ascertaining that we had no objection, they set about making nosegays of the flowers, and collecting the roots for sale, and actually stood two saturdays in belford market (the smallest merchants of a surety that ever appeared in that rural exchange) to dispose of their wares; having obtained a cast in a waggon there and back, and carrying home faithfully every penny of their gainings, to deposit in the common stock. the next year we lost sight of them. no smoke issued from the small chimney by the hill-side. the hut itself was half demolished by wind and weather; its tenants had emigrated to the new house on squire benson's land; and after two or three attempts to understand and to follow the directions as to the spot given us by the good farmer at everley, we were forced to give up the search. accident, the great discoverer and recoverer of lost goods, at last restored to us these good little children. it happened as follows:-- in new potting some large hydrangeas, we were seized with a desire to give the blue tinge to the petals, which so greatly improves the beauty of that fine bold flower, and which is so desirable when they are placed, as these were destined to be, in the midst of red and pink blossoms, fuchsias, salvias, and geraniums. accordingly, we sallied forth to a place called the moss, a wild tract of moorland lying about a mile to the right of the road to everley, and famous for the red bog, produced, i presume, by chalybeate springs, which, when mixed with the fine bagshot silver sand, is so effectual in changing the colour of flowers. it was a bleak gusty day in february, raining by fits, but not with sufficient violence to deter me from an expedition to which i had taken a fancy. putting up, therefore, the head and apron of the phaeton, and followed by one lad (the shrewd boy dick) on horseback, and another (john, the steady gardening youth) in a cart laden with tubs and sacks, spades and watering-pots, to procure and contain the bog mould, (for we were prudently determined to provide for all emergencies, and to carry with us fit receptacles to receive our treasure, whether it presented itself in the form of red earth or of red mud,) our little procession set forth early in the afternoon, towards the wildest and most dreary piece of scenery that i have ever met with in this part of the country. wild and dreary of a truth was the moss, and the stormy sky, the moaning wind, and the occasional gushes of driving rain, suited well with the dark and cheerless region into which we had entered by a road, if a rude cart-track may be so called, such as shall seldom be encountered in this land of macadamisation. and yet, partly perhaps from their novelty, the wild day and the wild scenery had for me a strange and thrilling charm. the ground, covered with the sea-green moss, whence it derived its name, mingled in the higher parts with brown patches of heather, and dark bushes of stunted furze, was broken with deep hollows full of stagnant water; some almost black, others covered with the rusty scum which denoted the presence of the powerful mineral, upon whose agency we relied for performing that strange piece of natural magic which may almost be called the transmutation of flowers. towards the ruddiest of these pools, situated in a deep glen, our active coadjutors, leaving phaeton, cart, and horses, on the brow of the hill, began rolling and tossing the several tubs, buckets, watering-pots, sacks, and spades, which were destined for the removal and conveyance of the much coveted-bog; we followed, amused and pleased, as, in certain moods, physical and mental, people are pleased and amused at self-imposed difficulties, down the abrupt and broken descent; and for some time the process of digging among the mould at the edge of the bank went steadily on. in a few minutes, however, dick, whose quick and restless eye was never long bent on any single object, most of all when that object presented itself in the form of work, exclaimed to his comrade, "look at those children wandering about amongst the firs, like the babes in the wood in the old ballad. what can they be about?" and looking in the direction to which he pointed, we saw, amidst the gloomy fir plantations, which formed a dark and massive border nearly round the moss, our old friends harry and bessy leigh, collecting, as it seemed, the fir cones with which the ground was strewed, and depositing them carefully in a large basket. a manful shout from my companion soon brought the children to our side--good, busy, cheerful, and healthy-looking as ever, and marvellously improved in the matter of equipment. harry had been promoted to a cap, which added the grace of a flourish to his bow; bessy had added the luxury of a pinafore to her nondescript garments; and both pairs of little feet were advanced to the certain dignity, although somewhat equivocal comfort, of shoes and stockings. the world had gone well with them, and with their parents. the house was built. upon remounting the hill, and advancing a little farther into the centre of the moss, we saw the comfortable low-browed cottage, full of light and shadow, of juttings out, and corners and angles of every sort and description, with a garden stretching along the side, backed and sheltered by the tall impenetrable plantation, a wall of trees, against whose dark masses a wreath of light smoke was curling, whose fragrance seemed really to perfume the winter air. the pig had been bought, fatted, and killed; but other pigs were inhabiting the sty, almost as large as their former dwelling, which stood at the end of their garden; and the children told with honest joy how all this prosperity had come about. their father, taking some brooms to my kind friend lady denys, had seen some of the ornamental baskets used for flowers upon a lawn, and had been struck with the fancy of trying to make some, decorated with fir cones; and he had been so successful in this profitable manufacture, that he had more orders than he could execute. lady denys had also, with characteristic benevolence, put the children to her sunday-school. one misfortune had a little overshadowed the sunshine. squire benson had died, and the consent to the erection of the cottage being only verbal, the attorney who managed for the infant heir, a ward in chancery, had claimed the property. but the matter had been compromised upon the payment of such a rent as the present prospects of the family would fairly allow. besides collecting fir cones for the baskets, they picked up all they could in that pine forest, (for it was little less,) and sold such as were discoloured, or otherwise unfit for working up, to lady denys and other persons who liked the fine aromatic odour of these the pleasantest of pastilles, in their dressing-room or drawing-room fires. "did i like the smell? we had a cart there--might they bring us a hamper-ful?" and it was with great difficulty that a trifling present (for we did not think of offering money _as payment_) could be forced upon the grateful children. "we," they said, "had been their first friends." for what very small assistance the poor are often deeply, permanently thankful! well says the great poet-- "i've heard of hearts unkind, good deeds with ill deeds still returning; alas, the gratitude of man hath oftener left me mourning!" wordsworth. again for above a year we lost sight of our little favourites, for such they were with both of us; though absence, indisposition, business, company--engagements, in short, of many sorts--combined to keep us from the moss for upwards of a twelvemonth. early in the succeeding april, however, it happened that, discussing with some morning visiters the course of a beautiful winding brook, (one of the tributaries to the loddon, which bright and brimming river has nearly as many sources as the nile,) one of them observed that the well-head was in lanton wood, and that it was a bit of scenery more like the burns of the north countrie (my visiter was a northumbrian) than anything he had seen in the south. surely i had seen it? i was half ashamed to confess that i had not--(how often are we obliged to confess that we have not seen the beauties which lie close to our doors, too near for observation!)--and the next day proving fine, i determined to repair my omission. it was a soft and balmy april morning, just at that point of the flowery spring when violets and primroses are lingering under the northern hedgerows, and cowslips and orchises peeping out upon the sunny banks. my driver was the clever, shrewd, arch boy dick; and the first part of our way lay along the green winding lanes which lead to everley; we then turned to the left, and putting up our phaeton at a small farmhouse, where my attendant (who found acquaintances everywhere) was intimate, we proceeded to the wood; dick accompanying me, carrying my flower-basket, opening the gates, and taking care of my dog dash, a very beautiful thorough-bred old english spaniel, who was a little apt, when he got into a wood, to run after the game, and forget to come out again. i have seldom seen anything in woodland scenery more picturesque and attractive than the old coppice of lanton, on that soft and balmy april morning. the underwood was nearly cut, and bundles of long split poles for hooping barrels were piled together against the tall oak trees, bursting with their sap; whilst piles of faggots were built up in other parts of the copse, and one or two saw-pits, with light open sheds erected over them, whence issued the measured sound of the saw and the occasional voices of the workmen, almost concealed by their subterranean position, were placed in the hollows. at the far side of the coppice, the operation of hewing down the underwood was still proceeding, and the sharp strokes of the axe and the bill, softened by distance, came across the monotonous jar of the never-ceasing saw. the surface of the ground was prettily tumbled about, comprehending as pleasant a variety of hill and dale as could well be comprised in some thirty acres. it declined, however, generally speaking, towards the centre of the coppice, along which a small, very small rivulet, scarcely more than a runlet, wound its way in a thousand graceful meanders. tracking upward the course of the little stream, we soon arrived at that which had been the ostensible object of our drive--the spot whence it sprung. it was a steep irregular acclivity on the highest side of the wood, a mound, i had almost said a rock, of earth, cloven in two about the middle, but with so narrow a fissure that the brushwood which grew on either side nearly filled up the opening, so that the source of the spring still remained concealed, although the rapid gushing of the water made a pleasant music in that pleasant place; and here and there a sunbeam, striking upon the sparkling stream, shone with a bright and glancing light amidst the dark ivies, and brambles, and mossy stumps of trees, that grew around. this mound had apparently been cut a year or two ago, so that it presented an appearance of mingled wildness and gaiety, that contrasted very agreeably with the rest of the coppice; whose trodden-down flowers i had grieved over, even whilst admiring the picturesque effect of the woodcutters and their several operations. here, however, reigned the flowery spring in all her glory. violets, pansies, orchises, oxslips, the elegant woodsorrel, the delicate wood anemone, and the enamelled wild hyacinth, were sprinkled profusely amongst the mosses, and lichens, and dead leaves, which formed so rich a carpet beneath our feet. primroses, above all, were there of almost every hue, from the rare and pearly white, to the deepest pinkish purple, coloured by some diversity of soil, the pretty freak of nature's gardening; whilst the common yellow blossom--commonest and prettiest of all--peeped out from amongst the boughs in the stump of an old willow, like (to borrow the simile of a dear friend, now no more) a canary bird from its cage. the wild geranium was already showing its pink stem and scarlet-edged leaves, themselves almost gorgeous enough to pass for flowers; the periwinkle, with its wreaths of shining foliage, was hanging in garlands over the precipitous descent; and the lily of the valley, the fragrant woodroof, and the silvery wild garlick, were just peeping from the earth in the most sheltered nooks. charmed to find myself surrounded by so much beauty, i had scrambled, with much ado, to the top of the woody cliff, (no other word can convey an idea of its precipitous abruptness,) and was vainly attempting to trace by my eye the actual course of the spring, which was, by the clearest evidence of sound, gushing from the fount many feet below me; when a peculiar whistle of delight, (for whistling was to dick, although no ordinary proficient in our common tongue, another language,) and a tremendous scrambling amongst the bushes, gave token that my faithful attendant had met with something as agreeable to his fancy, as the primroses and orchises had proved to mine. guided by a repetition of the whistle, i soon saw my trusty adherent spanning the chasm like a colossus, one foot on one bank, the other on the opposite--each of which appeared to me to be resting, so to say, on nothing--tugging away at a long twig that grew on the brink of the precipice, and exceedingly likely to resolve the inquiry as to the source of the loddon, by plumping souse into the fountain-head. i, of course, called out to warn him; and he equally, of course, went on with his labour, without paying the slightest attention to my caution. on the contrary, having possessed himself of one straight slender twig, which, to my great astonishment, he wound round his fingers, and deposited in his pocket, as one should do by a bit of pack-thread, he apparently, during the operation, caught sight of another. testifying his delight by a second whistle, which, having his knife in his mouth, one wonders how he could accomplish; and scrambling with the fearless daring of a monkey up the perpendicular bank, supported by strings of ivy, or ledges of roots, and clinging by hand and foot to the frail bramble or the slippery moss, leaping like a squirrel from bough to bough, and yet, by happy boldness, escaping all danger, he attained his object as easily as if he had been upon level ground. three, four, five times was the knowing, joyous, triumphant whistle sounded, and every time with a fresh peril and a fresh escape. at last, the young gentleman, panting and breathless, stood at my side, and i began to question him as to the treasure he had been pursuing. "it's the ground-ash, ma'am," responded master dick, taking one of the coils from his pocket; "the best riding-switch in the world. all the whips that ever were made are nothing to it. only see how strong it is, how light, and how supple! you may twist it a thousand ways without breaking. it won't break, do what you will. each of these, now, is worth half-a-crown or three shillings, for they are the scarcest things possible. they grow up at a little distance from the root of an old tree, like a sucker from a rose-bush. great luck, indeed!" continued dick, putting up his treasure with another joyful whistle; "it was but t'other day that jack barlow offered me half-a-guinea for four, if i could but come by them. i shall certainly keep the best, though, for myself--unless, ma'am, you would be pleased to accept it for the purpose of whipping dash." whipping dash!!! well have i said that dick was as saucy as a lady's page or a king's jester. talk of whipping dash! why, the young gentleman knew perfectly well that i had rather be whipt myself twenty times over. the very sound seemed a profanation. whip my dash! of course i read master dick a lecture for this irreverent mention of my pet, who, poor fellow, hearing his name called in question, came up in all innocence to fondle me; to which grave remonstrance the hopeful youth replied by another whistle, half of penitence, half of amusement. these discourses brought us to the bottom of the mound, and turning round a clump of hawthorn and holly, we espied a little damsel with a basket at her side, and a large knife in her hand, carefully digging up a large root of white primroses, and immediately recognised my old acquaintance, bessy leigh. she was, as before, clean, and healthy, and tidy, and unaffectedly glad to see me; but the joyousness and buoyancy which had made so much of her original charm, were greatly diminished. it was clear that poor bessy had suffered worse griefs than those of cold and hunger; and upon questioning her, so it turned out. her father had died, and her mother had been ill, and the long hard winter had been hard to get through; and then the rent had come upon her, and the steward (for the young gentleman himself was a minor) had threatened to turn them out if it were not paid to a day--the very next day after that on which we were speaking; and her mother had been afraid they must go to the workhouse, which would have been a sad thing, because now she had got so much washing to do, and harry was so clever at basket-making, that there was every chance, this rent once paid, of their getting on comfortably. "and the rent will be paid now, ma'am, thank ood!" added bessy, her sweet face brightening; "for we want only a guinea of the whole sum, and lady denys has employed me to get scarce wild-flowers for her wood, and has promised me half-a-guinea for what i have carried her, and this last parcel, which i am to take to the lodge to-night; and mr. john barlow, her groom, has offered harry twelve and sixpence for five ground-ashes that harry has been so lucky as to find by the spring, and harry is gone to cut them: so that now we shall get on bravely, and mother need not fret any longer. i hope no harm will befal harry in getting the ground-ash, though, for it's a noted dangerous place. but he's a careful boy." just at this point of her little speech, poor bessy was interrupted by her brother, who ran down the declivity exclaiming, "they're gone, bessy!--they're gone! somebody has taken them! the ground-ashes are gone!" dick put his hand irresolutely to his pocket, and then, uttering a dismal whistle, pulled it resolutely out again, with a hardness, or an affectation of hardness, common to all lads, from the prince to the stable-boy. i also put my hand into my pocket, and found, with the deep disappointment which often punishes such carelessness, that i had left my purse at home. all that i could do, therefore, was to bid the poor children be comforted, and ascertain at what time bessy intended to take her roots, which in the midst of her distress she continued to dig up, to my excellent friend lady denys. i then, exhorting them to hope the best, made my way quickly out of the wood. arriving at the gate, i missed my attendant. before, however, i had reached the farm at which we had left our phaeton, i heard his gayest and most triumphant whistle behind me. thinking of the poor children, it jarred upon my feelings. "where have you been loitering, sir?" i asked, in a sterner voice than he had probably ever heard from me before. "where have i been?" replied he; "giving little harry the ground-ashes, to be sure: i felt just as if i had stolen them. and now, i do believe," continued he, with a prodigious burst of whistling, which seemed to me as melodious as the song of the nightingale, "i do believe," quoth dick, "that i am happier than they are. i would not have kept those ground-ashes, no, not for fifty pounds!" wikkey a scrap by yam new york e. p. dutton & company west twenty-third street wikkey. a scrap. chapter i. mr. ruskin has it that we are all kings and queens, possessing realms and treasuries. however this may be, it is certain that there are souls born to reign over the hearts of their fellows, kings walking about the world in broad-cloth and fustian, shooting-jackets, ulsters, and what not--swaying hearts at will, though it may be all unconscious of their power; and only the existence of some such psychological fact as this will account for the incident which i am about to relate. lawrence granby was, beyond all doubt, one of these royal ones, his kingdom being co-extensive with the circle of his acquaintance--not that he was in the least aware of the power he exercised over all who came in contact with him, as he usually attributed the fact that he "got on" with people "like a house on fire" to the good qualities possessed by "other fellows." even the comforts by which he was surrounded in his lodging by his landlady and former nurse, mrs. evans, he considered as the result of the dame's innate geniality, though the opinion entertained of her by underlings and by those who met her in the way of business was scarcely as favorable. he was a handsome fellow too, this lawrence, six feet three, with a curly brown head and the frankest blue eyes that ever looked pityingly, almost wonderingly, on the small and weak things of the earth. and the boy, wikkey whiston, was a crossing-sweeper. i am sorry for this, for i fancy people are becoming a little tired of the race, in story-books at least, but as he _was_ a crossing-sweeper it cannot be helped. it would not mend matters much to invest him with some other profession, especially as it was while sitting broom in hand, under the lamp-post at one end of his crossing that he first saw lawrence granby, and if he had never seen lawrence granby i should not be writing about him at all. it was a winter's morning in , bright as it is possible for such a morning to be in london, but piercingly cold, and wikkey had brushed and re-brushed the pathway--which scarcely needed it, the east wind having already done half the work--just to put some feeling of warmth into his thin frame before seating himself in his usual place beneath the lamp-post. there were a good many passers-by, for it was the time of day at which clerks and business men are on their way to their early occupation, and the boy scanned each face in the fashion that had become habitual to him in his life-long look out for coppers. presently he saw approaching a peculiarly tall figure, and looked at it curiously, tracing its height upward from his own stunted point of view till he encountered the cheery glance of lawrence granby. wikkey was strangely fascinated by the blue eyes looking down from so far above him, and scarcely knowing what he did, he rose and went shambling on alongside of the young man, his eyes riveted on his face. lawrence, however, being almost unconscious of the boy's presence till his attention was drawn to him by the friend with whom he was walking, who said, laughing and pointing to wikkey, "friend of yours, eh? seems to know you." then he looked down again and met the curious, intent stare fixed upon him. "well, small boy! i hope you'll know me again," he said. to which wikkey promptly returned in the shrill, aggressively aggrieved voice of the london arab: "i reckon it don't do you no harm, guvner; a cat may look at a king." lawrence laughed, and threw him a copper, saying, "you are a cheeky little fellow," and went on his way. wikkey stood looking after him, and then picked up the penny, holding it between his cold hands, as though it possessed some warming properties, and muttering: "it seems fur to warm a chap to look at him;" and then he sat down once more, still pondering over the apparition that had so fascinated him. oddly enough the imputation of cheekiness rankled in his mind in a most unusual fashion--not that wikkey entertained the faintest objection to "cheek" in the abstract, and there were occasions on which any backwardness in its use would betray a certain meanness of spirit: for instance to the natural enemy of the race--the bobby--it was only right to exhibit as much of the article as was compatible with safety. indeed, the inventor of a fresh sarcasm, biting in its nature yet artfully shrouded in language which might be safely addressed to an arm of the law was considered by his fellows in the light of a public benefactor. the errand-boy also, who, because he carried a parcel or basket and happened to wear shoes, thought himself at liberty to cast obloquy on those whose profession was of a more desultory nature, and whose clothing was scantier--he must be held in check and his pride lowered by sarcasms yet more biting and far less veiled. these things were right and proper, but wikkey felt uncomfortable under an imputation of "cheekiness" from the "big chap" who had so taken his fancy, and wondered at his own feeling. that evening, as lawrence walked briskly homeward, after his day's work, he became aware of the pale, wizen face again looking up into his through the dusk, and of a shrill voice at his side. "i say, guvner, you hadn't no call fur to call me cheeky; i didn't mean no cheek, only i likes the look of yer; it seems fur to warm a chap." lawrence stopped this time and looked curiously at the boy, at the odd, keen eyes gazing at him so hungrily. "you are a strange lad if you are not a cheeky one," he said. "why do you like the look of me?" "i dunno," said wikkey, and then he repeated his formula, "it seems to warm a chap." "you must be precious cold if that will do it, poor little lad. what's your name?" "wikkey." "wikkey? is that all?" "no, i've another name about me somewheres, but i can't just mind of it. they allus calls me wikkey." "poor lad!" lawrence said again, looking at the thin skeleton frame, sadly visible through the tattered clothing. "poor little chap! it's sharp weather for such a mite as you. there! get something to warm you." and feeling in his pocket he drew out half-a-crown, which he slipped into wikkey's hand, and then turned and walked away. wikkey stood looking after him with two big tears rolling down his dirty face; it was so long since any one had called him a poor little chap, and he repeated the words over and over as he threaded his way in the darkness to the dreary lodging usually called "skimmidges," and kept by a grim woman of that name. "it seems fur to warm a chap," he said again, as he crept under the wretched blanket which mrs. skimmidge designated and charged for as a bed. from that day forward wikkey was possessed by one idea--that of watching for the approach of the "big chap," following his steps along the crossing, and then, if possible, getting a word or look on which to live until the next blissful moment should arrive. nor was he often disappointed, for lawrence, having recently obtained employment in a certain government office, and wikkey's crossing happening to lie on the shortest way from his own abode to the scene of his daily labor, he seldom varied his route, and truth to say, the strange little figure, always watching so eagerly for his appearance, began to have an attraction for him. he wondered what the boy meant by it, and at first, naturally connected the idea of coppers with wikkey's devotion; but he soon came to see that it went deeper than that, for with a curious instinct of delicacy which the lad would probably have been quite unable to explain to himself, he would sometimes hang back as lawrence reached the pavement, and nod his funny "good night, guvner," from midway on his crossing, in a way that precluded any suspicion of mercenary motives. but at last there came a season of desolation very nearly verging on despair. day after day for a week--ten days--a fortnight--did wikkey watch in vain for his hero. poor lad, he could not know that lawrence had been suddenly summoned to the country, and had arranged for a substitute to take his duty for a fortnight; and the terrible thought haunted the child that the big chap had changed his route, perhaps even out of dislike to his--wikkey's--attentions, and he should never see his face again. the idea was horrible--so horrible that as it became strengthened by each day's disappointment, and at last took possession of the boy's whole soul, it sapped away what little vitality there was in the small, fragile frame, leaving it an easy prey to the biting wind which caught his breath away as he crept shivering around the street corners, and to the frost which clutched the thinly-clad body. the cough, which wikkey scarcely remembered ever being without, increased to such violence as to shake him from head to foot, and his breathing became hard and painful; yet still he clung to his crossing with the pertinacity of despair, scanning each figure that approached with eager, hungry eyes. he had laid out part of lawrence's half-crown on a woolen muffler, which at first had seemed a marvel of comfort, but the keen north-easter soon found its way even through that, and the hot pies on which he expended the rest did not warm him for very long; there came a day, too, when he could only hold his pie between his frozen hands, dreamily wondering why he felt no wish to eat it, why the sight of it made him feel so sick. a dreadful day that was. mechanically, wikkey from time to time, swept his way slowly over the crossing, but the greater part of the time he spent sitting at the foot of the lamp-post at either end, coughing and shivering, and now and then dozing and starting up in terror lest the "big chap" should have passed by during his brief unconsciousness. dusk came on, and then lamp-light, and still wikkey sat there. a policeman passing on his beat saw the haggard face and heard the choking cough. "you'd best be off home, my lad," he said, pausing a moment; "you don't look fit to be out on a night like this;" and wikkey, taking the remark to be only another form of the oft-heard injunction to "move on," seized his broom and began sweeping as in an evil dream--then sank down exhausted on the other side. it was getting late, later than he usually stayed, but something seemed to warn him that this might be his last chance, and he remained crouching there, almost too far-gone to be conscious of the cold; till on a sudden there came, piercing through the dull mist of returning consciousness, a voice saying: "hullo, wikkey! you are late to-night." and starting upward with wild startled eyes the boy saw lawrence granby. he staggered to his feet and gasped out: "you've come, have you? i've been a watching and a waiting of you, and i thought as you'd never come again." then the cough seized him, shaking him till he could only cling to the lamp-post for support till it was over, and then slip down in a helpless heap on the pavement. "wikkey, poor little chap, how bad you are," said lawrence, looking sadly down on the huddled-up figure; "you oughtn't to be out. you--you haven't been watching for me like this?" "i've been a watching and a watching," wikkey answered, in faint hoarse tones, "and i thought you'd taken to another crossing and i'd never see you again." "poor little chap! poor little lad!" was all the young man could find to say, while there rose up in his heart an impulse which his common sense tried hard to suppress, but in vain. "wikkey," he said, at last, "you must come home with me;" and he took one of the claw-like hands in his warmly gloved one, and walked on slowly, out of compassion for the child's feeble limbs: even then, however, they soon gave way, and wikkey once more slid down crying on the pavement. there was nothing for it but for lawrence to gather up the child in his strong arms, and stride on, wondering whether after all it were not too late to revive the frozen-out life. for one blissful moment wikkey felt himself held close and warm, and his head nestled against the woolly ulster, and then all was blank. to say that lawrence enjoyed his position would be going too far. whatever might be wikkey's mental peculiarities, his exterior differed in no way from that of the ordinary street arab, and such close contact could not fail to be trying to a young man more than usually sensitive in matters of cleanliness; but lawrence strode manfully on with his strange burden, choosing out the least frequented streets, and earnestly hoping he might meet none of his acquaintances, till at last he reached his lodgings and admitted himself into a small well-lighted hall, where, after calling "mrs. evans," he stood under the lamp awaiting her arrival, not without considerable trepidation, and becoming each moment more painfully conscious how extraordinary his behavior must appear in her eyes. "mrs. evans," he began, as the good lady emerged from her own domain on the ground floor. "mrs. evans, i have brought this boy"--then he paused, not knowing how to enter upon the needful explanation under the chilling influence of mrs. evans' severe and respectful silence. "i dare say you are surprised," he went on at last in desperation; "but the poor child is terribly ill, dying, i think, and if you could do anything." "of course, mr. lawrence, you do as you think proper," mrs. evans returned, preserving her severest manner, though she eyed wikkey with some curiosity; "only if you had mentioned when you engaged my rooms that you intended turning them into a refuge for vagabonds, it would have been more satisfactory to all parties." "i know all that. i know its very inconsiderate of me, and i am very sorry; but you see the little fellow is so bad--he looks just like little robin, nurse." mrs. evans sniffed at the comparison, but the allusion to the child she had so fondly tended, as he sank into an early grave, had its effect; together with the seldom revived appellation of "nurse," and her mollified manner encouraged lawrence to continue. "if you wouldn't mind getting a hot bath ready in the kitchen, i will manage without troubling you." "i hope, mr. lawrence, that i know my place better than that," was the reply, and forthwith mrs. evans, who, beneath a somewhat stern exterior, possessed a really good heart, took wikkey under her wing, administered warmth and restoratives, washed the grimy little form, cropped and scrubbed the matted locks, and soon the boy, dreamily conscious and wondrously happy, was lying before a blazing fire, clean and fair to look on, enveloped in one of mrs. evans' own night-dresses. then the question arose, where was wikkey to pass the night, followed by a whispered dialogue and emphatic "nothing will be safe" from the lady of the house. all of which the boy perfectly understanding, he remarked: "i aint a prig; i'll not take nothink." there was a touch of injured innocence in the tone; it was simply the statement of a fact which might easily have been otherwise, and the entire matter-of-factness of the assertion inspired lawrence with a good deal of confidence, together with the cough which returned on the slightest movement, and would effectually prevent a noiseless evasion on the part of poor wikkey. so once more he was lifted up in the strong arms and carried to a sofa in lawrence's own room, where snugly tucked up in blankets, he soon fell asleep. his benefactor, after prolonged meditation in his arm-chair, likewise betook himself to rest, having decided that a doctor must be the first consideration on the following morning, and that the next step would be to consult reg--reg would be able to advise him: it was his business to understand about such matters. a terrible fit of coughing proceeding from the sofa awoke lawrence next morning, startling him into sudden recollection of the evening's adventure; and when the shutters were opened wikkey looked so fearfully wan and exhausted in the pale gray light, that he made all speed to summon mrs. evans, and to go himself for the doctor. the examination of the patient did not last long, and at its conclusion the doctor muttered something about the "workhouse--as of course, mr. granby, you are not prepared----" the look of imploring agony which flashed from the large, wide-open eyes made lawrence sign to the doctor to follow him into another room; but before leaving wikkey he gave him an encouraging nod, saying: "all right, wikkey. i'll come back. well," he said, as they entered the sitting-room, "what do you think of him?" "think? there's not much thinking in the matter; the boy is dying, mr. granby, and if you wish to remove him you had better do so at once." "how long will it be?" "a week or so, i should say, or it might be sooner, though these cases sometimes linger longer than one expects. the mischief is of long standing, and this is the end." lawrence remained for some time lost in thought. "poor little chap!" he said at last, sadly. "well, thank you, doctor. good-morning." "do you wish any steps taken with regard to the workhouse, mr. granby?" asked the doctor, preparing to depart. wikkey's beseeching eyes rose up before lawrence, and he stammered out hastily: "no--no thank you; not just at present. i'll think about it;" and the doctor took his leave, wondering whether it could be possible that mr. granby intended to keep the boy; he was not much used to such quixotic proceedings. lawrence stood debating with himself. "should he send wikkey to the workhouse? what should he do with a boy dying in the house? how should he decide?" certainly not by going back to meet those wistful eyes. the decision must be made before seeing the boy again, or, as the soft-hearted fellow well knew, it would be all up with his common sense. calling mrs. evans, therefore, he bade her tell wikkey that he would come back presently; and then he said, timidly: "should you mind it very much, nurse, if i were to keep the boy here? the doctor says he is dying, so that it would not be for long, and i would take all the trouble i could off your hands. i have not made up my mind about it yet, but of course i could not decide upon anything without first consulting you." the answer, though a little stiff, was more encouraging than might have been expected from the icy severity of mrs. evans' manner. (was she also making her protest on the side of common sense against a lurking desire to keep wikkey?) "if it's your wish, mr. lawrence, i'm not the one to turn out a homeless boy. it's not quite what i'm accustomed to, but he seems a quiet lad enough--poor child!" the words came out in a softer tone; "and as you say, sir, it can't be for long." much relieved, lawrence sped away; it was still early, and there would be time to get this matter settled before he went down to the office if he looked sharp; and so sharp did he look that in a little more than ten minutes he had cleared the mile which lay between his lodgings and that of his cousin reginald trevor, senior curate of s. bridget's east, and had burst in just as the latter was sitting down to his breakfast after morning service. and then lawrence told his story, his voice shaking a little as he spoke of wikkey's strange devotion to himself, and of the weary watch which had no doubt helped on the disease which was killing him, and he wound up with-- "and now, reg, what is a fellow to do? i suppose i'm a fool, but i can't send the little chap away!" the curate's voice was a little husky too. "if that is folly, commend me to a fool," he said: and then, after some moments of silent thought--"i don't see why you should not keep the boy, lawrence; you have no one to think of except yourself, unless, indeed, mrs. evans--" "oh, she's all right!" broke in his cousin; "i believe she has taken a fancy to wikkey." "then i do not see why you should not take your own way in the matter, provided always that the boy's belongings do not stand in the way. you must consider that, lawrence; you may be bringing a swarm about you, and wikkey's relations may not prove as disinterested as himself." "but that is just the beauty of it; he hasn't any belongings, for i asked him; beyond paying a shilling for a bed to some hag he calls skimmidge, he seems to have no tie to any living creature." "that being so," said reginald, slowly; "and if you do not feel alarmed about your spoons, i don't see why you should not make the little soul happy, and"--he added with a smile--"get a blessing too, old fellow, though i doubt you will bring a sad time on yourself, lawrence." lawrence gave a sort of self-pitying little shrug, but did not look daunted, and his cousin went on-- "meanwhile, i think the hag ought to be made aware of your intentions; she will be looking out for her rent." "bother! i forgot all about that," exclaimed lawrence, "and i haven't a minute to spare; i must race back to set the boy's mind at rest, and its close upon nine now. what's to be done?" "look here, i'll come back with you now, and if you can get me mrs. skimmidge's address i'll go and settle matters with her and glean any information i can about the boy: she may possibly be more communicative to me than to you. i know the sort, you see." as lawrence encountered wikkey's penetrating gaze, he felt glad that his mind was made up; and when the question came in a low, gasping voice, "i say, guvner, are you going to send me away?" he sat down on the end of the sofa and answered: "no, wikkey, you are going to stay with me." "always?" lawrence hesitated, not knowing quite what to say. "always is a long time off; we needn't think about that; you are going to stay with me now;" and then feeling some compensation necessary for the weakness of his conduct, he added very gravely, "that is, wikkey, if you promise to be a good boy and to mind what i and mrs. evans say to you, and always to speak the truth." "i'll be as good as ever i know how," said wikkey, meekly; "and i reckon i sha'n't have much call to tell lies. yes, i'll be good, guvner, if you let me stop;" and again the black eyes were raised to his in dog-like appeal, and fixed on his face with such intensity that lawrence felt almost embarrassed, and glad to escape after eliciting the "hag's" address, and promising to return in the evening. "i will look in this evening and tell you what i have done," reginald said, as they went out together; "and also to get a peep at wikkey, about whom i am not a little curious." "yes, do, reg; i shall want some help, you know, for i suppose i've got a young heathen to deal with, and if he's going to die and all that, one must teach him something, and i'm sure i can't do it." "he has got the first element of religion in him, at any rate. he has learned to look _up_." lawrence reddened, and gave a short laugh, saying-- "i'm not so sure of that;" and the two men went on their respective ways. the "hag" began by taking up the offensive line, uttering dark threats as to "police" and "rascals as made off without paying what they owed." then she assumed the defensive, "lone widows as has to get their living and must look sharp after their honest earnings;" and finally became pathetic over the "motherless boy" on whom she had seemingly lavished an almost parental affection; but she could give no account of wikkey's antecedents beyond the fact that his mother had died there some years since, the only trace remaining of her being an old bible, which mrs. skimmidge made a great merit of not having sold when she had been forced to take what "bits of things" were left by the dead woman in payment of back rent, omitting to mention that no one had been anxious to purchase it. yes, she would part with it to his reverence for the sum of two shillings; and mr. trevor, after settling with mrs. skimmidge, pocketed the book, on the fly-leaf of which was the inscription-- "sarah wilkins, from her sunday-school teacher. _cranbury, --._" wilkins! might that not account for wikkey's odd name? wilkins, wilky, wikkey; it did not seem unlikely. that evening, reginald, entering his cousin's sitting-room, found lawrence leaning back in his arm-chair on one side of the fire, and on the other his strange little guest lying propped up on the sofa, which had been drawn up within reach of the glow. "well," he said, "so this is wikkey; how are you getting on, wikkey?" the black eyes scanned his face narrowly for a moment, and then a high weak voice said in a tone of great disapprobation: "it wouldn't warm a chap much fur to look at _him_; _he_ ain't much to look at, anyhow;" and wikkey turned away his head and studied the cretonne pattern on his sofa, as if there were nothing more to be said on the subject. evidently, the fair, almost fragile face which possessed such attraction for lawrence in his strength had none for the weakly boy; possibly he had seen too many pale, delicate faces to care much about them. but lawrence, unreasonably nettled, broke out hotly-- "wikkey, you mustn't talk like that!" while the curate laughed and said: "all right, wikkey, stick to mr. granby; but i hope you and i will be good friends yet;" then drawing another chair up to the fire he began to talk to his cousin. presently the high voice spoke again-- "why mustn't i, guvner?" "why mustn't you what?" "talk like that of _him_?" pointing to reginald. "because it's not civil. mr. trevor is my friend, and i am very fond of him." "must i like everythink as you like?" "yes, of course," said lawrence, rather amused. "then i will, guvner--but it's a rum start." he lay still after that, while the two men talked, but reginald noted how the boy's eyes were scarcely ever moved from lawrence's face. as he took leave of his cousin in the hall, he said-- "you will do more for him just now than i could, lawrence; you will have to take him in hand." "but i haven't the faintest notion what to do, reg. i shall have to come to you and get my lesson up. what am i to begin with?" "time will show; let it come naturally. of course i will give you any help i can, but you will tackle him far better than i could. you have plenty to work upon, for if ever a boy loved with his whole heart and soul, that boy loves you." "loves me--yes; but that won't do, you know." "it will do a great deal; a soul that loves something better than itself is not far off loving the best. good night, old fellow." lawrence went back to wikkey, and leant his back against the mantelpiece, looking thoughtfully down at the boy. "what did the other chap call you?" inquired wikkey. "granby, do you mean?" wikkey nodded. "lawrence granby,--that is my name. but, wikkey, you must not call him 'chap'; you must call him mr. trevor." "oh, my eye! he's a swell, is he? i never call you nothink only guvner; i shall call you lawrence; it's a big name like you, and a deal nicer nor guvner." lawrence gave a little laugh. was it his duty to inculcate a proper respect for his betters into this boy? if he were going to live it might be; but when he thought how soon all earthly distinctions would be over for wikkey, it seemed hardly worth while. "very well," he said. "by-the-by, wikkey, have you recollected your own other name?" "yes, i've minded it. it's whiston." "do you remember your father and mother?" "i don't remember no father. mother, she died after i took to the crossing." "do you know what her name was before she was married?" wikkey shook his head. "don't know nothink," he said. lawrence showed him the old bible, but it awoke no recollections in the boy's mind; he only repeated, "i don't know nothink." "wikkey," said lawrence again, after a silence, "what made you take a fancy to me?" "i dunno. i liked the looks of yer the very first time as ever you came over, and after that i thought a deal of yer. i thought that if you was king of england, i'd have 'listed and gone for a soldier. i don't think much of queens myself, but i'd have fought for you, and welcome. and i thought as i wouldn't have had you see me cheat jim of his coppers. i dunno why;" and a look of real perplexity came into wikkey's face as the problem presented itself to his mind. "did you often cheat jim?" "scores o' times," answered the boy composedly. "we'd play pitch-and-toss, and then i'd palm a ha' penny, and jim he'd never twig." a quick turn of the bony wrist showed how dexterously the trick had been done, and wikkey went off into a shrill cackle at the recollection of his triumphs. "he's the biggest flat as ever i came across. why, i've seen him look up and down the gutter for them browns till i thought i'd have killed myself with trying not to laugh out." the puckers in the thin face were so irresistibly comical that lawrence found it hard to preserve his own gravity: however, he contrived to compose his features, and to say, with a touch of severity-- "i can tell why you wouldn't have liked me to see you; it was because you knew you were doing wrong." wikkey's face expressed no comprehension. "it was wicked to cheat jim, and you were a bad boy when you did it." "my stars! why, he could have got 'em from me in a juffy; he was twice my size. i only boned 'em cos he was such a soft." the explanation appeared perfectly satisfactory to wikkey, but lawrence, feeling that this was an opportunity that should not be lost, made a desperate effort and began again-- "it was wicked all the same; and though i did not see you do it, there was someone who did--someone who sees everything you do. have you ever heard of god, wikkey?" "yes, i've heard on him. i've heard the name times about. ('_how_ used?' wondered lawrence.) where is he?" "he is everywhere, though you cannot see him, and he sees everything you do." "is he good?" "very good." "as good as you?" "a great deal better." poor lawrence felt very uncomfortable, not quite knowing how to place his instructions on a less familiar footing. "i don't want no one better nor you; you're good enough for me," said wikkey, very decidedly; and then lawrence gave it up in despair, and mentally resolving that reg must help him, he carried wikkey off to bed. chapter ii. the following evening lawrence found a letter from his cousin on his table. "from what you tell me," reginald wrote, "i should say that wikkey must be taught through his affections: that he is capable of a strong and generous affection he has fully proved, so that i advise you not to attempt for the present much doctrinal instruction. ('doctrinal instruction!' mentally ejaculated lawrence; 'what does he mean? as if i could do that;' then he read on.) what i mean is this: the boy's intellect has probably, from the circumstances of his life, been too strongly developed to have left much room for the simple faith which one has to work on in ordinary childhood; and having been used chiefly as a weapon, offensive and defensive, in the battle with life, it is not likely to prove a very helpful instrument just now, as it would probably make him quicker to discern difficulties than to accept truths upon trust. i should, therefore, be inclined to place religion before him in a way that would appeal more to his affections than to his reason, and try to interest him in our lord from, so to speak, a _human_ point of view, without going into the mysteries connected with the incarnation, and if possible without, at first, telling the end of the gospel narrative. speak of a person--one whom you love--who might have lived for ever in perfect happiness, but who, from love to us, preferred to come and live on earth in poverty and suffering (the poor lad will appreciate the meaning of those words only too well)--who was all-powerful, though living as a man, and full of tenderness. then tell of the miracles and works of love, of his continued existence--though for the present invisible to us--of his love and watchfulness; and when wikkey's interest is aroused, as i believe it will be, i should read from the bible itself the story of the sufferings and death. can you gather any meaning from this rough outline? it seems to me that it is intended that wikkey should be led _upwards_ from the human to the divine. for others a different plan of teaching might be better, but i think this is the right key to his development; and, moreover, i firmly believe that you will be shown how to use it." lawrence remained for some time after reading his letter with his elbows on the table, and his head resting on his hands, which were buried in his thick brown hair; a look of great perplexity was on his face. "of course, i must try," he thought; "one couldn't have it on one's conscience; but it's a serious business to have started." looking up, he met wikkey's rather anxious glance. "is anythink amiss, lawrence?" "no, wikkey--i was only thinking;" then, plunging on desperately, he continued: "i was thinking how i could best make you understand what i said last night about someone who sees everything you do--someone who is very good." "cut on, i'm minding. is it someone as you love?" lawrence reddened. what _was_ his feeling towards the christ? reverence certainly, and some loyalty, but could he call it _love_, in the presence of the passionate devotion to himself which showed in every look of those wistful eyes? "yes, i love him," he said slowly, "but not as much as i should." then as a sudden thought struck him. "look here, wikkey, you said you would like to have me for a king; well, he that i am telling you of is my king, and he must be yours, too, and we will both try to love and obey him." "where is he?" asked wikkey. "you can't see him now, because he lives up in heaven. he is the son of god, and he might always have stayed in heaven, quite happy, only, instead of that, he came down upon earth, and became a man like one of us, so that he might know what it is. and though he was really a king, he chose to live like a poor man, and was often cold and hungry as you used to be; and he went about helping people, and curing those who were ill, because, you know, wikkey, he was god, and could do anything. there are beautiful stories about him that i can tell you." "how do you know all about the king, lawrence?" "it is written in a book called the bible. have you ever seen a bible?" "that was the big book as blind tim used to sit and feel over with his fingers by the area rails. i asked him what it was, and he said as it was the bible. but bless you; he weren't blind no more nor you are: he lodged at skimmidge's for a bit, and i saw him a reading of the paper in his room; he kicked me when he saw as i'd twigged him;" and wikkey's laugh broke out at the recollection. poor child, his whole knowledge of sacred things seemed to be derived from-- "holiest things profaned and cursed." "tim was a bad man to pretend to be blind when he wasn't," said lawrence, severely. "but now, wikkey, shall i read you a story about the king?" "did he live in london?" wikkey asked, as lawrence took up the old book with the feeling that the boy should hear these things for the first time out of his mother's bible. "no, he lived in a country a long way off; but that makes no difference, because he is god, and can see us everywhere, and he wants us to be good." then lawrence opened the bible, and after some thought, half read, half told, about the feeding of the hungry multitude. each succeeding evening, a fresh story about the king was related, eagerly listened to, and commented on by wikkey with such familiar realism as often startled lawrence, and made him wonder whether he were allowing irreverence; but which at the same time, threw a wondrously vivid light on the histories which, known since childhood, had lost so much of their interest for himself: and certainly, as far awakening first the boy's curiosity, and then his love, went, the method of instruction answered perfectly. for wikkey did not die at the end of the week, or of many succeeding weeks: warmth and food, and mrs. evans' nursing powers combined, caused one of those curious rallies not uncommon in cases of consumption, though no one who saw the boy's thin, flushed cheeks, and brilliant eyes, could think the reprieve would be a long one. still for the present there was improvement, and lawrence could not help feeling glad that he might keep for a little while longer the child whose love had strangely brightened his lonely lodgings. and while wikkey's development was being carried on in the highest direction, his education in minor matters was progressing under mrs. evans' tuition--tuition of much the same kind as she had bestowed years before on master lawrence and her sweet master robin. by degrees wikkey became thoroughly initiated in the mysteries of the toilette, and other amenities of civilized life, and being a sharp child, with a natural turn for imitation, he was, at the end of a week or two, not entirely unlike those young gentlemen in his ways, especially when his conversation became shorn of the expletives which had at first adorned it, but which, under mrs. evans' sharp rebukes, and lawrence's graver admonitions that they were displeasing to the king, fast disappeared. wikkey's remorse on being betrayed into the utterance of some comparatively harmless expression, quite as deep as when one slipped that gave even lawrence a shock, showed how little their meaning had to do with their use. one evening lawrence, returning home to find wikkey established as usual on the sofa near the fire, was greeted by the eager question-- "lawrence, what was the king like? i've been a thinking of it all day, and i _should_ like to know. do you think he was a bit like you?" "not at all," lawrence answered. "we don't know exactly what he was like; but--let me see," he went on, considering, "i think i have a picture somewhere--i had one;" and he crossed the room to a corner where, between the book-case and the wall, were put away a number of old pictures, brought from the "boys' room" at home, and never yet re-hung; among them was a little oxford frame containing a photograph of the thorn-crowned head by guido. how well he remembered its being given to him on his birthday by his mother! this he showed to wikkey, explaining that though no one knows certainly what the king is like, it is thought that he may have resembled that picture. the boy looked at it for some time in silence, and then said-- "i've seen pictures like that in shops, but i never knew as it was the king. he looks very sorrowful--a deal sorrowfuller nor you--and what is that he has on his head?" "that has to do with a very sad story, which i have not told you yet. you know, wikkey, though he was so good and kind, the men of that country hated him, and would not have him for their king, and at last they took him prisoner, and treated him very badly, and they put that crown of sharp, pricking thorns on his head, because he said he was a king." "was it to make game of him?" asked wikkey, in a tone of mingled awe and distress. lawrence nodded gravely, and feeling that this was perhaps as good a moment as any for completing the history, he took the book, and in low, reverent tones, began the sad story of the betrayal, captivity, and death. wikkey listened in absorbed attention, every now and then commenting on the narrative in a way which showed its intense reality to himself, and gave a marvellous vividness to the details of which lawrence had before scarcely realized the terrible force. as he read on, his voice became husky, and the child's eyes were fixed on him with devouring eagerness, till the awful end came, and wikkey broke into an agony of weeping. lawrence hastily put down the book, and taking the little worn frame into his arms tried to soothe the shaking sobs, feeling the while as though he had been guilty of cruelty to the tender, sensitive heart. "i thought some one would have saved him," wikkey gasped. "i didn't know as he was killed; you never told me he was killed." "wikkey, little lad--hush--look here! it was all right at the end. listen while i read the end; it is beautiful." and as the sobs subsided he began to read again, still holding the boy close, and inwardly wondering whether something like this might have been the despair of the disciples on that friday evening--read of the sadness of that waiting time, of the angel's visit to the silent tomb, of the loving women at the sepulchre, and the joyful message, "he is not here, he is risen;" and lastly, of the parting blessing, the separating cloud and the tidings of the coming again. a look of great relief was on wikkey's face as lawrence ceased reading, and he lay for some time with closed eyes, resting after his outburst. at last he opened them with sudden wonder. "lawrence, why did he let them do it? if he could do anything, why didn't he save himself from the enemies?" the old wonder--the old question--which must be answered; and lawrence, after thinking a moment, said-- "it had to be, wikkey. he had to die--to die for us. it was like this:--people were very wicked, always doing bad things, and nobody that was bad could go to heaven, but they must be punished instead. but god was very sorry that none of the people he had made could come and be happy with him, so his son, jesus christ, our king, became a man, and came down on earth that he might be punished instead of us, so that we might be forgiven and allowed to come into heaven. he bore all that for each of us, so that now, if we believe in him and try to please him, we shall go to be with him in heaven when we die." lawrence was very far from guessing that his teaching had become "doctrinal." he had spoken out of the fulness of his own conviction, quickened into fresh life by the intensity of wikkey's realization of the facts he had heard. "it _was_ good of him--it _was_ good," the child repeated again and again, with a world of love shining in his eyes, till, worn out with his emotion, he fell asleep, and was gently laid by lawrence in his bed. but in the middle of the night sounds of stifled weeping aroused lawrence. "what is it, wikkey boy?" he asked, groping his way to him. "are you worse?" "i didn't mean for to wake you; but i wish--i _wish_ i hadn't boned them coppers off jim; it makes me feel so bad when i think as the king saw me;" and wikkey buried his face in the kind arm which encircled him, in uncontrollable grief. it needed all lawrence's assurances that the king saw his repentance, and had certainly forgiven--yes, and the prayer for pardon which the young man, blushing red-hot in the darkness at the unwonted effort, uttered in husky tones, with the child's thin hands clasped in his own--before wikkey was sufficiently quieted to sleep again. before going down to the office lawrence wrote to his cousin: "i can do no more; he has got beyond me. he loves _him_ more than ever i have done. come and help us both." so reginald came on such evenings as he could spare, and wikkey, no longer averse, listened as he told him of the fatherhood of god, of the love of the son, and of the ever-present comforter; of creation, redemption, and sanctification, and all the deep truths of the faith, receiving them with the belief that is born rather of love than of reason; for though the acuteness of the boy's questions and remarks often obliged reginald to bring his own strong intellect to bear on them, they arose from no spirit of antagonism, but were the natural outcome of a thoughtful, inquiring mind. sometimes, however, wikkey was too tired for talking, and could only lie still and listen while lawrence and the curate conversed, the expression of his eyes, as they passed from one to another, showing that he understood far more than might have been expected. one evening, in the middle of march, after he had been carried up-stairs, the cousins sat talking over their charge. "i have been considering about his baptism," reginald said. "his baptism! do you think he hasn't been christened?" "no, i don't think so," returned the other, thoughtfully. "i cannot bring myself to believe that we have been working on unconsecrated soil; but still we do not know. of course i could baptize him hypothetically, but i should like to know the truth." "baptize him _how_?" lawrence asked, with a frown of perplexity. "hypothetically. don't be alarmed, it isn't a new fad of mine: it means baptizing on the _supposition_ that there has been no previous baptism; for, you know, our church does not allow it to be done twice. i wonder if anything could be learnt by going down to the place named in the book?" "cranbury! i looked in bradshaw for it, and it seems to be a small place about an hour and a half from euston station; i might find a day to run down, though i don't quite see when; and how if i were to find a heap of relations wanting the boy? i could not spare him now, you know." "scarcely likely. wikkey has evidently never seen a relation for, say, ten years, or he would recollect it, and it is hardly probable that any one will be anxious to take a boy in his state whom they have not seen for ten years. besides, he couldn't well be moved now." "no, he couldn't; and i sincerely hope that no affectionate relatives will want to come and see him here; that would be a most awful nuisance. what do you think of a tearful grandmother haunting the place?" "the idea is oppressive, certainly, but i do not think you need fear it much, and you have established a pretty fair right to do as you like about the boy. look here, lawrence; supposing i were to run down on this place; i believe i could spare a day better than you, and a breath of fresh air would do me no harm." "i shouldn't think it would," said lawrence, looking at his cousin's pale face--all the paler for the stress of his winter's work. "do, reg; and for pity's sake, bring a root of some flower if you can find one; it is sickening to think of a child dying without ever having had such a thing in his hands." "all right, then, i will go to-morrow; for--for," reginald added gravely, "there is no time to be lost." "i know there is not; i know it must come soon. reg, i couldn't have believed i should have grown to care for the boy as i do." "no, you have prepared a wrench for yourself, old fellow, but you will never be the worse for it, lawrence. you know all about that better than i can preach it to you." there was a silence, and then lawrence said-- "ought he to be told?" "well, that puzzles me; i feel as if he ought, and yet there can be no need to frighten the child. if it came naturally, it might be better for you to tell him gently." "i?" exclaimed lawrence, aghast. "yes, it must be you; he will take it better from you than from anyone else; but wait and see; you will be shown what to do." the result of the curate's mission to cranbury was very satisfactory. on being directed to the solitary remaining inhabitant of the name of wilkins, reginald learnt that sarah wilkins had been the only daughter of his brother, that she had married a ne'er-do-weel of the name of whiston, who had deserted her shortly before the birth of her child, that she had followed her husband to london as soon as she was able to travel, and after a while had been lost sight of by her family. the old man seemed but slightly interested in the matter, and reginald saw that no interference need be feared from him. on further consulting the parish register, he found recorded the marriage of thomas whiston and sarah wilkins, and a year later, the baptism of wilkins, son of thomas and sarah whiston, in . "so it is as i hoped, the child is one of the flock," the curate said to himself. "and that mite of a boy is thirteen years old!" and he returned to london triumphant, bringing with him besides the information he went to seek, a root of primroses with yellow-tipped spikes ready to burst, and an early thrush's nest containing five delicate blue eggs. this last treasure reginald displayed with intense pride. "i found a boy carrying it on the road, and rated the young rascal soundly for taking it, but i'm afraid the shilling i gave him made more impression than the lecture. isn't it a beauty? i wonder when i last saw a nest?" he went on, touching the eggs with loving fingers. "hardly since our old bird's-nesting days, eh, lawrence! do you remember the missel-thrush in the apple-tree?" "ay, and the licking you got for splitting your sunday jacket up the back;" and the two "working-men" laughed at the recollection, as they carried the prize to display to wikkey, with a comical anxiety, almost amounting to dread, lest it should not produce the effect they intended. no fear of that! wikkey's eyes dilated as he gazed into the nest, and, after some persuasion, took one of the smooth eggs into his hand; and from that moment he could not endure it out of his sight, but had it placed morning and evening beside his sofa or bed, near his other treasure, the picture of the king, on the other side of which stood the primrose, planted in one of mrs. evans' tea-cups. as the spring advanced, wikkey became visibly worse, and all saw that the end could not be far off. reginald, coming in one evening, found him asleep in lawrence's arms, and was startled to see how great a change had taken place in him during the last four and twenty hours. in answer to his inquiring look, his cousin said, speaking very low-- "since this morning, he is much worse; but better now than he was." sitting down, on the opposite side of the fire, reginald thoughtfully contemplated the two. what a contrast! lawrence, all health and strength, with the warm light glancing on the thick waves of his hair, and deepening the ruddy brown of his complexion, while the glow scarcely served to tint the pale face lying on his breast--deadly white, save for the two red spots on the sunken checks--or the hair hanging in loose lank threads. for some time no one spoke, but as the boy's sleep continued sound and unbroken, the cousins fell into talk, low and subdued, and many things were touched on in that quiet hour, which neither could have put into words at another time. at length reginald rose to go, and at the same moment, wikkey opened his eyes and smiled, as he saw his visitor, and tried to lift himself up. "i'm awake now," he said; "i didn't know as you were here." "never mind, wikkey, lie still," said reginald, "you are too tired for any reading to-night. i will tell you one verse--a beautiful one--for you and lawrence to talk about some day," and laying his hand on the boy's head he repeated, in low, gentle tones--"thine eye shall see the king in his beauty." after he was gone, wikkey lay very still, with his eyes fixed intently on the fire. lawrence dreaded what his next question might be, and at last it came. "what does it mean--see the king?" "it means that we shall all see him some day, wikkey, when--when--we die. it will be beautiful to see the king, won't it?" "yes," said the child, dreamily. "i'd like to see him. i know as i'm going to die; but will it be soon? oh, lawrence! must it be directly?" and as he clung convulsively to him, the young man felt the little heart beating wildly. "wikkey--little lad--dear little lad--don't be frightened," he said, stroking the boy's head; "don't be frightened;" but still the eyes questioned him with agonized eagerness, and he knew he must answer, but his voice was very husky, and he felt the task a hard one. "i'll tell you, wikkey. i think the king loves you so much that he wants you to come to him, and not to be ill any more, nor have any more bad pain or coughing. that would be nice, wouldn't it?--never to feel ill any more, and to see the king." "yes," wikkey said, with a long sigh, "it would be ever so nice; but, oh! i _don't_ want for to leave you, lawrence--won't you come, too?" "some day, please god; but that must be as the king likes--perhaps he will not want me to come yet. i must try to do anything he wants me to do here first." "should you like to come now, lawrence?" the question was rather a relief, for a sense of being unreal had come over lawrence while he spoke, and he answered quickly-- "no, i had rather not go yet, wikkey: but you see i am well and strong. i think if i were ill like you i should like it; and you need not feel frightened, for the king will not leave you. he will be taking care of you all the time, and you will go to him." "are you quite certain?" no room for doubt here--and the answer came unhesitatingly--"quite certain, wikkey." "and you are _sure_ that you'll come too?" "i wish i were half as certain," the young man thought, with a sigh, then said aloud--"if i try to obey the king i hope i shall." "but you will try--you will, lawrence!" cried wikkey, passionately. very quietly and low lawrence answered--"by god's help--yes!" and he bent and kissed the child's forehead, as if to seal the vow. wikkey seemed satisfied, and in a few minutes was dozing again. he slept for an hour after being put to bed, but then grew restless, and the night passed wearily between intervals of heavy oppression--half-unconscious wakefulness and rambling, incoherent talk, sometimes of his street-life, of his broom, for which he felt about with weak, aimless hands, of cold and hunger; and then he would break out into murmuring complaints of mrs. skimmidge, when forbidden words would slip out, and even then the child's look of distress went to lawrence's heart. but oftenest the wandering talk was of the incidents of the last few weeks, and over and over came the words--"see the king in his beauty." in the morning wikkey was quieter and perfectly sensible: but the pinched look on his face, and the heavy labored breathing, told plainly that he was sinking. hard as it had been for lawrence to leave his "little lad," up to this time he had been scrupulous in never allowing wikkey to interfere with his office duties; but now it seemed impossible to leave the child, who clung feebly to him with a frightened whisper-- "oh, don't go, lawrence! p'raps the king will want me, and maybe i shouldn't be so frightened if i kept looking at you." no, he could not go; so writing a hurried line--"cannot come to-day--the boy i told you of is dying--the work shall be ready in time," he dispatched it to the head clerk of his department. "granby's craze" had at first excited a good deal of astonishment when it became known at the office; but lawrence had quietly discouraged any attempts at "chaff" on the subject, and as time went on he used to be greeted by really warm inquiries after "the little chap." the hours passed slowly by. reginald came and went as he could spare time; sometimes he prayed in such short and simple language as wikkey could join in--and the expression of his face showed that he did so--sometimes he knelt in silence, praying earnestly for the departing soul, and for lawrence in his mournful watch. as the day began to wane, reginald entering, saw that the end was near, and knelt to say the last prayers; as he finished the pale march sun, struggling through the clouds, sent a shaft of soft light into the room and touched wikkey's closed eyes. they opened with a smile, and raising himself in lawrence's arms, he leant forward with a look so eager and expectant, that with a thrill of awe, almost amounting to terror, the young man whispered-- "what is it, wikkey? do you see anything?" "not yet--soon--it's coming," the boy murmured, without altering his fixed gaze; and then for an instant a wondrous light seemed to break over the wan face--only for an instant--for suddenly as it had dawned, it faded out, and with it fled the little spirit, leaving only the frail worn-out form to fall back gently on lawrence's breast. was he gone? almost incredulously lawrence looked down, and then, with pale, set features, he rose, and laying wikkey on the bed, sank on his knees beside it, and buried his face in the pillow, with the sound of a great sob. reginald approached the bed, and laying his hand for a moment on the bowed head, spoke low and solemnly-- "the blessing of a soul that was ready to perish come upon you, lawrence." then he quitted the room, and closing the door softly, left lawrence alone with his "little lad." * * * * * so wikkey passed away, and lawrence went back to his work, ever retaining deep down in his heart the memory of the child whose life had become so strangely interwoven with his own, and more precious still, the lesson bequeathed to him by his "little lad," of how a soul that looks persistently upwards finds its full satisfaction at last in the vision of "the king in his beauty." +-----------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | page : changed unusal to unusual | | | | page : changed "skimmedges" to "skimmidges" | | changed "skimmedge to skimmidge | | | | page : changed wikky to wikkey | | | | page : changed guvnor to guvner | | | | page : changed wikkie to wikkey | | | | page : changed evans's to evans' | | | | page : changed to to too | | | +-----------------------------------------------+ digitized by cardinalis etext press [c.e.k.] prepared for project gutenberg by andrew sly ragged dick; or, street life in new york with the boot-blacks. by horatio alger jr. to joseph w. allen, at whose suggestion this story was undertaken, it is inscribed with friendly regard. preface "ragged dick" was contributed as a serial story to the pages of the schoolmate, a well-known juvenile magazine, during the year . while in course of publication, it was received with so many evidences of favor that it has been rewritten and considerably enlarged, and is now presented to the public as the first volume of a series intended to illustrate the life and experiences of the friendless and vagrant children who are now numbered by thousands in new york and other cities. several characters in the story are sketched from life. the necessary information has been gathered mainly from personal observation and conversations with the boys themselves. the author is indebted also to the excellent superintendent of the newsboys' lodging house, in fulton street, for some facts of which he has been able to make use. some anachronisms may be noted. wherever they occur, they have been admitted, as aiding in the development of the story, and will probably be considered as of little importance in an unpretending volume, which does not aspire to strict historical accuracy. the author hopes that, while the volumes in this series may prove interesting stories, they may also have the effect of enlisting the sympathies of his readers in behalf of the unfortunate children whose life is described, and of leading them to co-operate with the praiseworthy efforts now making by the children's aid society and other organizations to ameliorate their condition. new york, april, chapter i ragged dick is introduced to the reader "wake up there, youngster," said a rough voice. ragged dick opened his eyes slowly, and stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not offer to get up. "wake up, you young vagabond!" said the man a little impatiently; "i suppose you'd lay there all day, if i hadn't called you." "what time is it?" asked dick. "seven o'clock." "seven o'clock! i oughter've been up an hour ago. i know what 'twas made me so precious sleepy. i went to the old bowery last night, and didn't turn in till past twelve." "you went to the old bowery? where'd you get your money?" asked the man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on spruce street. "made it by shines, in course. my guardian don't allow me no money for theatres, so i have to earn it." "some boys get it easier than that," said the porter significantly. "you don't catch me stealin', if that's what you mean," said dick. "don't you ever steal, then?" "no, and i wouldn't. lots of boys does it, but i wouldn't." "well, i'm glad to hear you say that. i believe there's some good in you, dick, after all." "oh, i'm a rough customer!" said dick. "but i wouldn't steal. it's mean." "i'm glad you think so, dick," and the rough voice sounded gentler than at first. "have you got any money to buy your breakfast?" "no, but i'll soon get some." while this conversation had been going on, dick had got up. his bedchamber had been a wooden box half full of straw, on which the young boot-black had reposed his weary limbs, and slept as soundly as if it had been a bed of down. he dumped down into the straw without taking the trouble of undressing. getting up too was an equally short process. he jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found their way into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the day. dick's appearance as he stood beside the box was rather peculiar. his pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. he wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. to complete his costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity. washing the face and hands is usually considered proper in commencing the day, but dick was above such refinement. he had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. but in spite of his dirt and rags there was something about dick that was attractive. it was easy to see that if he had been clean and well dressed he would have been decidedly good-looking. some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but dick had a frank, straight-forward manner that made him a favorite. dick's business hours had commenced. he had no office to open. his little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who passed, addressing each with, "shine yer boots, sir?" "how much?" asked a gentleman on his way to his office. "ten cents," said dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his profession. "ten cents! isn't that a little steep?" "well, you know 'taint all clear profit," said dick, who had already set to work. "there's the _blacking_ costs something, and i have to get a new brush pretty often." "and you have a large rent too," said the gentleman quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in dick's coat. "yes, sir," said dick, always ready to joke; "i have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on fifth avenoo, that i can't afford to take less than ten cents a shine. i'll give you a bully shine, sir." "be quick about it, for i am in a hurry. so your house is on fifth avenue, is it?" "it isn't anywhere else," said dick, and dick spoke the truth there. "what tailor do you patronize?" asked the gentleman, surveying dick's attire. "would you like to go to the same one?" asked dick, shrewdly. "well, no; it strikes me that he didn't give you a very good fit." "this coat once belonged to general washington," said dick, comically. "he wore it all through the revolution, and it got torn some, 'cause he fit so hard. when he died he told his widder to give it to some smart young feller that hadn't got none of his own; so she gave it to me. but if you'd like it, sir, to remember general washington by, i'll let you have it reasonable." "thank you, but i wouldn't want to deprive you of it. and did your pants come from general washington too?" "no, they was a gift from lewis napoleon. lewis had outgrown 'em and sent 'em to me,--he's bigger than me, and that's why they don't fit." "it seems you have distinguished friends. now, my lad, i suppose you would like your money." "i shouldn't have any objection," said dick. "i believe," said the gentleman, examining his pocket-book, "i haven't got anything short of twenty-five cents. have you got any change?" "not a cent," said dick. "all my money's invested in the erie railroad." "that's unfortunate." "shall i get the money changed, sir?" "i can't wait; i've got to meet an appointment immediately. i'll hand you twenty-five cents, and you can leave the change at my office any time during the day." "all right, sir. where is it?" "no. fulton street. shall you remember?" "yes, sir. what name?" "greyson,--office on second floor." "all right, sir; i'll bring it." "i wonder whether the little scamp will prove honest," said mr. greyson to himself, as he walked away. "if he does, i'll give him my custom regularly. if he don't as is most likely, i shan't mind the loss of fifteen cents." mr. greyson didn't understand dick. our ragged hero wasn't a model boy in all respects. i am afraid he swore sometimes, and now and then he played tricks upon unsophisticated boys from the country, or gave a wrong direction to honest old gentlemen unused to the city. a clergyman in search of the cooper institute he once directed to the tombs prison, and, following him unobserved, was highly delighted when the unsuspicious stranger walked up the front steps of the great stone building on centre street, and tried to obtain admission. "i guess he wouldn't want to stay long if he did get in," thought ragged dick, hitching up his pants. "leastways i shouldn't. they're so precious glad to see you that they won't let you go, but board you gratooitous, and never send in no bills." another of dick's faults was his extravagance. being always wide-awake and ready for business, he earned enough to have supported him comfortably and respectably. there were not a few young clerks who employed dick from time to time in his professional capacity, who scarcely earned as much as he, greatly as their style and dress exceeded his. but dick was careless of his earnings. where they went he could hardly have told himself. however much he managed to earn during the day, all was generally spent before morning. he was fond of going to the old bowery theatre, and to tony pastor's, and if he had any money left afterwards, he would invite some of his friends in somewhere to have an oyster-stew; so it seldom happened that he commenced the day with a penny. then i am sorry to add that dick had formed the habit of smoking. this cost him considerable, for dick was rather fastidious about his cigars, and wouldn't smoke the cheapest. besides, having a liberal nature, he was generally ready to treat his companions. but of course the expense was the smallest objection. no boy of fourteen can smoke without being affected injuriously. men are frequently injured by smoking, and boys always. but large numbers of the newsboys and boot-blacks form the habit. exposed to the cold and wet they find that it warms them up, and the self-indulgence grows upon them. it is not uncommon to see a little boy, too young to be out of his mother's sight, smoking with all the apparent satisfaction of a veteran smoker. there was another way in which dick sometimes lost money. there was a noted gambling-house on baxter street, which in the evening was sometimes crowded with these juvenile gamesters, who staked their hard earnings, generally losing of course, and refreshing themselves from time to time with a vile mixture of liquor at two cents a glass. sometimes dick strayed in here, and played with the rest. i have mentioned dick's faults and defects, because i want it understood, to begin with, that i don't consider him a model boy. but there were some good points about him nevertheless. he was above doing anything mean or dishonorable. he would not steal, or cheat, or impose upon younger boys, but was frank and straight-forward, manly and self-reliant. his nature was a noble one, and had saved him from all mean faults. i hope my young readers will like him as i do, without being blind to his faults. perhaps, although he was only a boot-black, they may find something in him to imitate. and now, having fairly introduced ragged dick to my young readers, i must refer them to the next chapter for his further adventures. chapter ii johnny nolan after dick had finished polishing mr. greyson's boots he was fortunate enough to secure three other customers, two of them reporters in the tribune establishment, which occupies the corner of spruce street and printing house square. when dick had got through with his last customer the city hall clock indicated eight o'clock. he had been up an hour, and hard at work, and naturally began to think of breakfast. he went up to the head of spruce street, and turned into nassau. two blocks further, and he reached ann street. on this street was a small, cheap restaurant, where for five cents dick could get a cup of coffee, and for ten cents more, a plate of beefsteak with a plate of bread thrown in. these dick ordered, and sat down at a table. it was a small apartment with a few plain tables unprovided with cloths, for the class of customers who patronized it were not very particular. our hero's breakfast was soon before him. neither the coffee nor the steak were as good as can be bought at delmonico's; but then it is very doubtful whether, in the present state of his wardrobe, dick would have been received at that aristocratic restaurant, even if his means had admitted of paying the high prices there charged. dick had scarcely been served when he espied a boy about his own size standing at the door, looking wistfully into the restaurant. this was johnny nolan, a boy of fourteen, who was engaged in the same profession as ragged dick. his wardrobe was in very much the same condition as dick's. "had your breakfast, johnny?" inquired dick, cutting off a piece of steak. "no." "come in, then. here's room for you." "i aint got no money," said johnny, looking a little enviously at his more fortunate friend. "haven't you had any shines?" "yes, i had one, but i shan't get any pay till to-morrow." "are you hungry?" "try me, and see." "come in. i'll stand treat this morning." johnny nolan was nowise slow to accept this invitation, and was soon seated beside dick. "what'll you have, johnny?" "same as you." "cup o' coffee and beefsteak," ordered dick. these were promptly brought, and johnny attacked them vigorously. now, in the boot-blacking business, as well as in higher avocations, the same rule prevails, that energy and industry are rewarded, and indolence suffers. dick was energetic and on the alert for business, but johnny the reverse. the consequence was that dick earned probably three times as much as the other. "how do you like it?" asked dick, surveying johnny's attacks upon the steak with evident complacency. "it's hunky." i don't believe "hunky" is to be found in either webster's or worcester's big dictionary; but boys will readily understand what it means. "do you come here often?" asked johnny. "most every day. you'd better come too." "i can't afford it." "well, you'd ought to, then," said dick. "what do you do i'd like to know?" "i don't get near as much as you, dick." "well you might if you tried. i keep my eyes open,--that's the way i get jobs. you're lazy, that's what's the matter." johnny did not see fit to reply to this charge. probably he felt the justice of it, and preferred to proceed with the breakfast, which he enjoyed the more as it cost him nothing. breakfast over, dick walked up to the desk, and settled the bill. then, followed by johnny, he went out into the street. "where are you going, johnny?" "up to mr. taylor's, on spruce street, to see if he don't want a shine." "do you work for him reg'lar?" "yes. him and his partner wants a shine most every day. where are you goin'?" "down front of the astor house. i guess i'll find some customers there." at this moment johnny started, and, dodging into an entry way, hid behind the door, considerably to dick's surprise. "what's the matter now?" asked our hero. "has he gone?" asked johnny, his voice betraying anxiety. "who gone, i'd like to know?" "that man in the brown coat." "what of him. you aint scared of him, are you?" "yes, he got me a place once." "where?" "ever so far off." "what if he did?" "i ran away." "didn't you like it?" "no, i had to get up too early. it was on a farm, and i had to get up at five to take care of the cows. i like new york best." "didn't they give you enough to eat?" "oh, yes, plenty." "and you had a good bed?" "yes." "then you'd better have stayed. you don't get either of them here. where'd you sleep last night?" "up an alley in an old wagon." "you had a better bed than that in the country, didn't you?" "yes, it was as soft as--as cotton." johnny had once slept on a bale of cotton, the recollection supplying him with a comparison. "why didn't you stay?" "i felt lonely," said johnny. johnny could not exactly explain his feelings, but it is often the case that the young vagabond of the streets, though his food is uncertain, and his bed may be any old wagon or barrel that he is lucky enough to find unoccupied when night sets in, gets so attached to his precarious but independent mode of life, that he feels discontented in any other. he is accustomed to the noise and bustle and ever-varied life of the streets, and in the quiet scenes of the country misses the excitement in the midst of which he has always dwelt. johnny had but one tie to bind him to the city. he had a father living, but he might as well have been without one. mr. nolan was a confirmed drunkard, and spent the greater part of his wages for liquor. his potations made him ugly, and inflamed a temper never very sweet, working him up sometimes to such a pitch of rage that johnny's life was in danger. some months before, he had thrown a flat-iron at his son's head with such terrific force that unless johnny had dodged he would not have lived long enough to obtain a place in our story. he fled the house, and from that time had not dared to re-enter it. somebody had given him a brush and box of blacking, and he had set up in business on his own account. but he had not energy enough to succeed, as has already been stated, and i am afraid the poor boy had met with many hardships, and suffered more than once from cold and hunger. dick had befriended him more than once, and often given him a breakfast or dinner, as the case might be. "how'd you get away?" asked dick, with some curiosity. "did you walk?" "no, i rode on the cars." "where'd you get your money? i hope you didn't steal it." "i didn't have none." "what did you do, then?" "i got up about three o'clock, and walked to albany." "where's that?" asked dick, whose ideas on the subject of geography were rather vague. "up the river." "how far?" "about a thousand miles," said johnny, whose conceptions of distance were equally vague. "go ahead. what did you do then?" "i hid on top of a freight car, and came all the way without their seeing me.* that man in the brown coat was the man that got me the place, and i'm afraid he'd want to send me back." * a fact. "well," said dick, reflectively, "i dunno as i'd like to live in the country. i couldn't go to tony pastor's or the old bowery. there wouldn't be no place to spend my evenings. but i say, it's tough in winter, johnny, 'specially when your overcoat's at the tailor's, an' likely to stay there." "that's so, dick. but i must be goin', or mr. taylor'll get somebody else to shine his boots." johnny walked back to nassau street, while dick kept on his way to broadway. "that boy," soliloquized dick, as johnny took his departure, "aint got no ambition. i'll bet he won't get five shines to-day. i'm glad i aint like him. i couldn't go to the theatre, nor buy no cigars, nor get half as much as i wanted to eat.--shine yer boots, sir?" dick always had an eye to business, and this remark was addressed to a young man, dressed in a stylish manner, who was swinging a jaunty cane. "i've had my boots blacked once already this morning, but this confounded mud has spoiled the shine." "i'll make 'em all right, sir, in a minute." "go ahead, then." the boots were soon polished in dick's best style, which proved very satisfactory, our hero being a proficient in the art. "i haven't got any change," said the young man, fumbling in his pocket, "but here's a bill you may run somewhere and get changed. i'll pay you five cents extra for your trouble." he handed dick a two-dollar bill, which our hero took into a store close by. "will you please change that, sir?" said dick, walking up to the counter. the salesman to whom he proffered it took the bill, and, slightly glancing at it, exclaimed angrily, "be off, you young vagabond, or i'll have you arrested." "what's the row?" "you've offered me a counterfeit bill." "i didn't know it," said dick. "don't tell me. be off, or i'll have you arrested." chapter iii dick makes a proposition though dick was somewhat startled at discovering that the bill he had offered was counterfeit, he stood his ground bravely. "clear out of this shop, you young vagabond," repeated the clerk. "then give me back my bill." "that you may pass it again? no, sir, i shall do no such thing." "it doesn't belong to me," said dick. "a gentleman that owes me for a shine gave it to me to change." "a likely story," said the clerk; but he seemed a little uneasy. "i'll go and call him," said dick. he went out, and found his late customer standing on the astor house steps. "well, youngster, have you brought back my change? you were a precious long time about it. i began to think you had cleared out with the money." "that aint my style," said dick, proudly. "then where's the change?" "i haven't got it." "where's the bill then?" "i haven't got that either." "you young rascal!" "hold on a minute, mister," said dick, "and i'll tell you all about it. the man what took the bill said it wasn't good, and kept it." "the bill was perfectly good. so he kept it, did he? i'll go with you to the store, and see whether he won't give it back to me." dick led the way, and the gentleman followed him into the store. at the reappearance of dick in such company, the clerk flushed a little, and looked nervous. he fancied that he could browbeat a ragged boot-black, but with a gentleman he saw that it would be a different matter. he did not seem to notice the newcomers, but began to replace some goods on the shelves. "now," said the young man, "point out the clerk that has my money." "that's him," said dick, pointing out the clerk. the gentleman walked up to the counter. "i will trouble you," he said a little haughtily, "for a bill which that boy offered you, and which you still hold in your possession." "it was a bad bill," said the clerk, his cheek flushing, and his manner nervous. "it was no such thing. i require you to produce it, and let the matter be decided." the clerk fumbled in his vest-pocket, and drew out a bad-looking bill. "this is a bad bill, but it is not the one i gave the boy." "it is the one he gave me." the young man looked doubtful. "boy," he said to dick, "is this the bill you gave to be changed?" "no, it isn't." "you lie, you young rascal!" exclaimed the clerk, who began to find himself in a tight place, and could not see the way out. this scene naturally attracted the attention of all in the store, and the proprietor walked up from the lower end, where he had been busy. "what's all this, mr. hatch?" he demanded. "that boy," said the clerk, "came in and asked change for a bad bill. i kept the bill, and told him to clear out. now he wants it again to pass on somebody else." "show the bill." the merchant looked at it. "yes, that's a bad bill," he said. "there is no doubt about that." "but it is not the one the boy offered," said dick's patron. "it is one of the same denomination, but on a different bank." "do you remember what bank it was on?" "it was on the merchants' bank of boston." "are you sure of it?" "i am." "perhaps the boy kept it and offered the other." "you may search me if you want to," said dick, indignantly. "he doesn't look as if he was likely to have any extra bills. i suspect that your clerk pocketed the good bill, and has substituted the counterfeit note. it is a nice little scheme of his for making money." "i haven't seen any bill on the merchants' bank," said the clerk, doggedly. "you had better feel in your pockets." "this matter must be investigated," said the merchant, firmly. "if you have the bill, produce it." "i haven't got it," said the clerk; but he looked guilty notwithstanding. "i demand that he be searched," said dick's patron. "i tell you i haven't got it." "shall i send for a police officer, mr. hatch, or will you allow yourself to be searched quietly?" said the merchant. alarmed at the threat implied in these words, the clerk put his hand into his vest-pocket, and drew out a two-dollar bill on the merchants' bank. "is this your note?" asked the shopkeeper, showing it to the young man. "it is." "i must have made a mistake," faltered the clerk. "i shall not give you a chance to make such another mistake in my employ," said the merchant sternly. "you may go up to the desk and ask for what wages are due you. i shall have no further occasion for your services." "now, youngster," said dick's patron, as they went out of the store, after he had finally got the bill changed. "i must pay you something extra for your trouble. here's fifty cents." "thank you, sir," said dick. "you're very kind. don't you want some more bills changed?" "not to-day," said he with a smile. "it's too expensive." "i'm in luck," thought our hero complacently. "i guess i'll go to barnum's to-night, and see the bearded lady, the eight-foot giant, the two-foot dwarf, and the other curiosities, too numerous to mention." dick shouldered his box and walked up as far as the astor house. he took his station on the sidewalk, and began to look about him. just behind him were two persons,--one, a gentleman of fifty; the other, a boy of thirteen or fourteen. they were speaking together, and dick had no difficulty in hearing what was said. "i am sorry, frank, that i can't go about, and show you some of the sights of new york, but i shall be full of business to-day. it is your first visit to the city, too." "yes, sir." "there's a good deal worth seeing here. but i'm afraid you'll have to wait to next time. you can go out and walk by yourself, but don't venture too far, or you will get lost." frank looked disappointed. "i wish tom miles knew i was here," he said. "he would go around with me." "where does he live?" "somewhere up town, i believe." "then, unfortunately, he is not available. if you would rather go with me than stay here, you can, but as i shall be most of the time in merchants'-counting-rooms, i am afraid it would not be very interesting." "i think," said frank, after a little hesitation, "that i will go off by myself. i won't go very far, and if i lose my way, i will inquire for the astor house." "yes, anybody will direct you here. very well, frank, i am sorry i can't do better for you." "oh, never mind, uncle, i shall be amused in walking around, and looking at the shop-windows. there will be a great deal to see." now dick had listened to all this conversation. being an enterprising young man, he thought he saw a chance for a speculation, and determined to avail himself of it. accordingly he stepped up to the two just as frank's uncle was about leaving, and said, "i know all about the city, sir; i'll show him around, if you want me to." the gentleman looked a little curiously at the ragged figure before him. "so you are a city boy, are you?" "yes, sir," said dick, "i've lived here ever since i was a baby." "and you know all about the public buildings, i suppose?" "yes, sir." "and the central park?" "yes, sir. i know my way all round." the gentleman looked thoughtful. "i don't know what to say, frank," he remarked after a while. "it is rather a novel proposal. he isn't exactly the sort of guide i would have picked out for you. still he looks honest. he has an open face, and i think can be depended upon." "i wish he wasn't so ragged and dirty," said frank, who felt a little shy about being seen with such a companion. "i'm afraid you haven't washed your face this morning," said mr. whitney, for that was the gentleman's name. "they didn't have no wash-bowls at the hotel where i stopped," said dick. "what hotel did you stop at?" "the box hotel." "the box hotel?" "yes, sir, i slept in a box on spruce street." frank surveyed dick curiously. "how did you like it?" he asked. "i slept bully." "suppose it had rained." "then i'd have wet my best clothes," said dick. "are these all the clothes you have?" "yes, sir." mr. whitney spoke a few words to frank, who seemed pleased with the suggestion. "follow me, my lad," he said. dick in some surprise obeyed orders, following mr. whitney and frank into the hotel, past the office, to the foot of the staircase. here a servant of the hotel stopped dick, but mr. whitney explained that he had something for him to do, and he was allowed to proceed. they entered a long entry, and finally paused before a door. this being opened a pleasant chamber was disclosed. "come in, my lad," said mr. whitney. dick and frank entered. chapter iv dick's new suit "now," said mr. whitney to dick, "my nephew here is on his way to a boarding-school. he has a suit of clothes in his trunk about half worn. he is willing to give them to you. i think they will look better than those you have on." dick was so astonished that he hardly knew what to say. presents were something that he knew very little about, never having received any to his knowledge. that so large a gift should be made to him by a stranger seemed very wonderful. the clothes were brought out, and turned out to be a neat gray suit. "before you put them on, my lad, you must wash yourself. clean clothes and a dirty skin don't go very well together. frank, you may attend to him. i am obliged to go at once. have you got as much money as you require?" "yes, uncle." "one more word, my lad," said mr. whitney, addressing dick; "i may be rash in trusting a boy of whom i know nothing, but i like your looks, and i think you will prove a proper guide for my nephew." "yes, i will, sir," said dick, earnestly. "honor bright!" "very well. a pleasant time to you." the process of cleansing commenced. to tell the truth dick needed it, and the sensation of cleanliness he found both new and pleasant. frank added to his gift a shirt, stockings, and an old pair of shoes. "i am sorry i haven't any cap," said he. "i've got one," said dick. "it isn't so new as it might be," said frank, surveying an old felt hat, which had once been black, but was now dingy, with a large hole in the top and a portion of the rim torn off. "no," said dick; "my grandfather used to wear it when he was a boy, and i've kep' it ever since out of respect for his memory. but i'll get a new one now. i can buy one cheap on chatham street." "is that near here?" "only five minutes' walk." "then we can get one on the way." when dick was dressed in his new attire, with his face and hands clean, and his hair brushed, it was difficult to imagine that he was the same boy. he now looked quite handsome, and might readily have been taken for a young gentleman, except that his hands were red and grimy. "look at yourself," said frank, leading him before the mirror. "by gracious!" said dick, starting back in astonishment, "that isn't me, is it?" "don't you know yourself?" asked frank, smiling. "it reminds me of cinderella," said dick, "when she was changed into a fairy princess. i see it one night at barnum's. what'll johnny nolan say when he sees me? he won't dare to speak to such a young swell as i be now. aint it rich?" and dick burst into a loud laugh. his fancy was tickled by the anticipation of his friend's surprise. then the thought of the valuable gifts he had received occurred to him, and he looked gratefully at frank. "you're a brick," he said. "a what?" "a brick! you're a jolly good fellow to give me such a present." "you're quite welcome, dick," said frank, kindly. "i'm better off than you are, and i can spare the clothes just as well as not. you must have a new hat though. but that we can get when we go out. the old clothes you can make into a bundle." "wait a minute till i get my handkercher," and dick pulled from the pocket of the pants a dirty rag, which might have been white once, though it did not look like it, and had apparently once formed a part of a sheet or shirt. "you mustn't carry that," said frank. "but i've got a cold," said dick. "oh, i don't mean you to go without a handkerchief. i'll give you one." frank opened his trunk and pulled out two, which he gave to dick. "i wonder if i aint dreamin'," said dick, once more surveying himself doubtfully in the glass. "i'm afraid i'm dreamin', and shall wake up in a barrel, as i did night afore last." "shall i pinch you so you can wake here?" asked frank, playfully. "yes," said dick, seriously, "i wish you would." he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, and frank pinched him pretty hard, so that dick winced. "yes, i guess i'm awake," said dick; "you've got a pair of nippers, you have. but what shall i do with my brush and blacking?" he asked. "you can leave them here till we come back," said frank. "they will be safe." "hold on a minute," said dick, surveying frank's boots with a professional eye, "you aint got a good shine on them boots. i'll make 'em shine so you can see your face in 'em." and he was as good as his word. "thank you," said frank; "now you had better brush your own shoes." this had not occurred to dick, for in general the professional boot-black considers his blacking too valuable to expend on his own shoes or boots, if he is fortunate enough to possess a pair. the two boys now went downstairs together. they met the same servant who had spoken to dick a few minutes before, but there was no recognition. "he don't know me," said dick. "he thinks i'm a young swell like you." "what's a swell?" "oh, a feller that wears nobby clothes like you." "and you, too, dick." "yes," said dick, "who'd ever have thought as i should have turned into a swell?" they had now got out on broadway, and were slowly walking along the west side by the park, when who should dick see in front of him, but johnny nolan? instantly dick was seized with a fancy for witnessing johnny's amazement at his change in appearance. he stole up behind him, and struck him on the back. "hallo, johnny, how many shines have you had?" johnny turned round expecting to see dick, whose voice he recognized, but his astonished eyes rested on a nicely dressed boy (the hat alone excepted) who looked indeed like dick, but so transformed in dress that it was difficult to be sure of his identity. "what luck, johnny?" repeated dick. johnny surveyed him from head to foot in great bewilderment. "who be you?" he said. "well, that's a good one," laughed dick; "so you don't know dick?" "where'd you get all them clothes?" asked johnny. "have you been stealin'?" "say that again, and i'll lick you. no, i've lent my clothes to a young feller as was goin' to a party, and didn't have none fit to wear, and so i put on my second-best for a change." without deigning any further explanation, dick went off, followed by the astonished gaze of johnny nolan, who could not quite make up his mind whether the neat-looking boy he had been talking with was really ragged dick or not. in order to reach chatham street it was necessary to cross broadway. this was easier proposed than done. there is always such a throng of omnibuses, drays, carriages, and vehicles of all kinds in the neighborhood of the astor house, that the crossing is formidable to one who is not used to it. dick made nothing of it, dodging in and out among the horses and wagons with perfect self-possession. reaching the opposite sidewalk, he looked back, and found that frank had retreated in dismay, and that the width of the street was between them. "come across!" called out dick. "i don't see any chance," said frank, looking anxiously at the prospect before him. "i'm afraid of being run over." "if you are, you can sue 'em for damages," said dick. finally frank got safely over after several narrow escapes, as he considered them. "is it always so crowded?" he asked. "a good deal worse sometimes," said dick. "i knowed a young man once who waited six hours for a chance to cross, and at last got run over by an omnibus, leaving a widder and a large family of orphan children. his widder, a beautiful young woman, was obliged to start a peanut and apple stand. there she is now." "where?" dick pointed to a hideous old woman, of large proportions, wearing a bonnet of immense size, who presided over an apple-stand close by. frank laughed. "if that is the case," he said, "i think i will patronize her." "leave it to me," said dick, winking. he advanced gravely to the apple-stand, and said, "old lady, have you paid your taxes?" the astonished woman opened her eyes. "i'm a gov'ment officer," said dick, "sent by the mayor to collect your taxes. i'll take it in apples just to oblige. that big red one will about pay what you're owin' to the gov'ment." "i don't know nothing about no taxes," said the old woman, in bewilderment. "then," said dick, "i'll let you off this time. give us two of your best apples, and my friend here, the president of the common council, will pay you." frank smiling, paid three cents apiece for the apples, and they sauntered on, dick remarking, "if these apples aint good, old lady, we'll return 'em, and get our money back." this would have been rather difficult in his case, as the apple was already half consumed. chatham street, where they wished to go, being on the east side, the two boys crossed the park. this is an enclosure of about ten acres, which years ago was covered with a green sward, but is now a great thoroughfare for pedestrians and contains several important public buildings. dick pointed out the city hall, the hall of records, and the rotunda. the former is a white building of large size, and surmounted by a cupola. "that's where the mayor's office is," said dick. "him and me are very good friends. i once blacked his boots by partic'lar appointment. that's the way i pay my city taxes." chapter v chatham street and broadway they were soon in chatham street, walking between rows of ready-made clothing shops, many of which had half their stock in trade exposed on the sidewalk. the proprietors of these establishments stood at the doors, watching attentively the passersby, extending urgent invitations to any who even glanced at the goods to enter. "walk in, young gentlemen," said a stout man, at the entrance of one shop. "no, i thank you," replied dick, "as the fly said to the spider." "we're selling off at less than cost." "of course you be. that's where you makes your money," said dick. "there aint nobody of any enterprise that pretends to make any profit on his goods." the chatham street trader looked after our hero as if he didn't quite comprehend him; but dick, without waiting for a reply, passed on with his companion. in some of the shops auctions seemed to be going on. "i am only offered two dollars, gentlemen, for this elegant pair of doeskin pants, made of the very best of cloth. it's a frightful sacrifice. who'll give an eighth? thank you, sir. only seventeen shillings! why the cloth cost more by the yard!" this speaker was standing on a little platform haranguing to three men, holding in his hand meanwhile a pair of pants very loose in the legs, and presenting a cheap bowery look. frank and dick paused before the shop door, and finally saw them knocked down to rather a verdant-looking individual at three dollars. "clothes seem to be pretty cheap here," said frank. "yes, but baxter street is the cheapest place." "is it?" "yes. johnny nolan got a whole rig-out there last week, for a dollar,--coat, cap, vest, pants, and shoes. they was very good measure, too, like my best clothes that i took off to oblige you." "i shall know where to come for clothes next time," said frank, laughing. "i had no idea the city was so much cheaper than the country. i suppose the baxter street tailors are fashionable?" "in course they are. me and horace greeley always go there for clothes. when horace gets a new suit, i always have one made just like it; but i can't go the white hat. it aint becomin' to my style of beauty." a little farther on a man was standing out on the sidewalk, distributing small printed handbills. one was handed to frank, which he read as follows,-- "grand closing-out sale!--a variety of beautiful and costly articles for sale, at a dollar apiece. unparalleled inducements! walk in, gentlemen!" "whereabouts is this sale?" asked frank. "in here, young gentlemen," said a black-whiskered individual, who appeared suddenly on the scene. "walk in." "shall we go in, dick?" "it's a swindlin' shop," said dick, in a low voice. "i've been there. that man's a regular cheat. he's seen me before, but he don't know me coz of my clothes." "step in and see the articles," said the man, persuasively. "you needn't buy, you know." "are all the articles worth more'n a dollar?" asked dick. "yes," said the other, "and some worth a great deal more." "such as what?" "well, there's a silver pitcher worth twenty dollars." "and you sell it for a dollar. that's very kind of you," said dick, innocently. "walk in, and you'll understand it." "no, i guess not," said dick. "my servants is so dishonest that i wouldn't like to trust 'em with a silver pitcher. come along, frank. i hope you'll succeed in your charitable enterprise of supplyin' the public with silver pitchers at nineteen dollars less than they are worth." "how does he manage, dick?" asked frank, as they went on. "all his articles are numbered, and he makes you pay a dollar, and then shakes some dice, and whatever the figgers come to, is the number of the article you draw. most of 'em aint worth sixpence." a hat and cap store being close at hand, dick and frank went in. for seventy-five cents, which frank insisted on paying, dick succeeded in getting quite a neat-looking cap, which corresponded much better with his appearance than the one he had on. the last, not being considered worth keeping, dick dropped on the sidewalk, from which, on looking back, he saw it picked up by a brother boot-black who appeared to consider it better than his own. they retraced their steps and went up chambers street to broadway. at the corner of broadway and chambers street is a large white marble warehouse, which attracted frank's attention. "what building is that?" he asked, with interest. "that belongs to my friend a. t. stewart," said dick. "it's the biggest store on broadway.* if i ever retire from boot-blackin', and go into mercantile pursuits, i may buy him out, or build another store that'll take the shine off this one." * mr. stewart's tenth street store was not open at the time dick spoke. "were you ever in the store?" asked frank. "no," said dick; "but i'm intimate with one of stewart's partners. he is a cash boy, and does nothing but take money all day." "a very agreeable employment," said frank, laughing. "yes," said dick, "i'd like to be in it." the boys crossed to the west side of broadway, and walked slowly up the street. to frank it was a very interesting spectacle. accustomed to the quiet of the country, there was something fascinating in the crowds of people thronging the sidewalks, and the great variety of vehicles constantly passing and repassing in the street. then again the shop-windows with their multifarious contents interested and amused him, and he was constantly checking dick to look in at some well-stocked window. "i don't see how so many shopkeepers can find people enough to buy of them," he said. "we haven't got but two stores in our village, and broadway seems to be full of them." "yes," said dick; "and its pretty much the same in the avenoos, 'specially the third, sixth, and eighth avenoos. the bowery, too, is a great place for shoppin'. there everybody sells cheaper'n anybody else, and nobody pretends to make no profit on their goods." "where's barnum's museum?" asked frank. "oh, that's down nearly opposite the astor house," said dick. "didn't you see a great building with lots of flags?" "yes." "well, that's barnum's.* that's where the happy family live, and the lions, and bears, and curiosities generally. it's a tip-top place. haven't you ever been there? it's most as good as the old bowery, only the plays isn't quite so excitin'." * since destroyed by fire, and rebuilt farther up broadway, and again burned down in february. "i'll go if i get time," said frank. "there is a boy at home who came to new york a month ago, and went to barnum's, and has been talking about it ever since, so i suppose it must be worth seeing." "they've got a great play at the old bowery now," pursued dick. "'tis called the 'demon of the danube.' the demon falls in love with a young woman, and drags her by the hair up to the top of a steep rock where his castle stands." "that's a queer way of showing his love," said frank, laughing. "she didn't want to go with him, you know, but was in love with another chap. when he heard about his girl bein' carried off, he felt awful, and swore an oath not to rest till he had got her free. well, at last he got into the castle by some underground passage, and he and the demon had a fight. oh, it was bully seein' 'em roll round on the stage, cuttin' and slashin' at each other." "and which got the best of it?" "at first the demon seemed to be ahead, but at last the young baron got him down, and struck a dagger into his heart, sayin', 'die, false and perjured villain! the dogs shall feast upon thy carcass!' and then the demon give an awful howl and died. then the baron seized his body, and threw it over the precipice." "it seems to me the actor who plays the demon ought to get extra pay, if he has to be treated that way." "that's so," said dick; "but i guess he's used to it. it seems to agree with his constitution." "what building is that?" asked frank, pointing to a structure several rods back from the street, with a large yard in front. it was an unusual sight for broadway, all the other buildings in that neighborhood being even with the street. "that is the new york hospital," said dick. "they're a rich institution, and take care of sick people on very reasonable terms." "did you ever go in there?" "yes," said dick; "there was a friend of mine, johnny mullen, he was a newsboy, got run over by a omnibus as he was crossin' broadway down near park place. he was carried to the hospital, and me and some of his friends paid his board while he was there. it was only three dollars a week, which was very cheap, considerin' all the care they took of him. i got leave to come and see him while he was here. everything looked so nice and comfortable, that i thought a little of coaxin' a omnibus driver to run over me, so i might go there too." "did your friend have to have his leg cut off?" asked frank, interested. "no," said dick; "though there was a young student there that was very anxious to have it cut off; but it wasn't done, and johnny is around the streets as well as ever." while this conversation was going on they reached no. , at the corner of franklin street.* * now the office of the merchants' union express company. "that's taylor's saloon," said dick. "when i come into a fortun' i shall take my meals there reg'lar." "i have heard of it very often," said frank. "it is said to be very elegant. suppose we go in and take an ice-cream. it will give us a chance to see it to better advantage." "thank you," said dick; "i think that's the most agreeable way of seein' the place myself." the boys entered, and found themselves in a spacious and elegant saloon, resplendent with gilding, and adorned on all sides by costly mirrors. they sat down to a small table with a marble top, and frank gave the order. "it reminds me of aladdin's palace," said frank, looking about him. "does it?" said dick; "he must have had plenty of money." "he had an old lamp, which he had only to rub, when the slave of the lamp would appear, and do whatever he wanted." "that must have been a valooable lamp. i'd be willin' to give all my erie shares for it." there was a tall, gaunt individual at the next table, who apparently heard this last remark of dick's. turning towards our hero, he said, "may i inquire, young man, whether you are largely interested in this erie railroad?" "i haven't got no property except what's invested in erie," said dick, with a comical side-glance at frank. "indeed! i suppose the investment was made by your guardian." "no," said dick; "i manage my property myself." "and i presume your dividends have not been large?" "why, no," said dick; "you're about right there. they haven't." "as i supposed. it's poor stock. now, my young friend, i can recommend a much better investment, which will yield you a large annual income. i am agent of the excelsior copper mining company, which possesses one of the most productive mines in the world. it's sure to yield fifty per cent. on the investment. now, all you have to do is to sell out your erie shares, and invest in our stock, and i'll insure you a fortune in three years. how many shares did you say you had?" "i didn't say, that i remember," said dick. "your offer is very kind and obligin', and as soon as i get time i'll see about it." "i hope you will," said the stranger. "permit me to give you my card. 'samuel snap, no. -- wall street.' i shall be most happy to receive a call from you, and exhibit the maps of our mine. i should be glad to have you mention the matter also to your friends. i am confident you could do no greater service than to induce them to embark in our enterprise." "very good," said dick. here the stranger left the table, and walked up to the desk to settle his bill. "you see what it is to be a man of fortun', frank," said dick, "and wear good clothes. i wonder what that chap'll say when he sees me blackin' boots to-morrow in the street?" "perhaps you earn your money more honorably than he does, after all," said frank. "some of these mining companies are nothing but swindles, got up to cheat people out of their money." "he's welcome to all he gets out of me," said dick. chapter vi up broadway to madison square as the boys pursued their way up broadway, dick pointed out the prominent hotels and places of amusement. frank was particularly struck with the imposing fronts of the st. nicholas and metropolitan hotels, the former of white marble, the latter of a subdued brown hue, but not less elegant in its internal appointments. he was not surprised to be informed that each of these splendid structures cost with the furnishing not far from a million dollars. at eighth street dick turned to the right, and pointed out the clinton hall building now occupied by the mercantile library, comprising at that time over fifty thousand volumes.* * now not far from one hundred thousand. a little farther on they came to a large building standing by itself just at the opening of third and fourth avenues, and with one side on each. "what is that building?" asked frank. "that's the cooper institute," said dick; "built by mr. cooper, a particular friend of mine. me and peter cooper used to go to school together." "what is there inside?" asked frank. "there's a hall for public meetin's and lectures in the basement, and a readin' room and a picture gallery up above," said dick. directly opposite cooper institute, frank saw a very large building of brick, covering about an acre of ground. "is that a hotel?" he asked. "no," said dick; "that's the bible house. it's the place where they make bibles. i was in there once,--saw a big pile of 'em." "did you ever read the bible?" asked frank, who had some idea of the neglected state of dick's education. "no," said dick; "i've heard it's a good book, but i never read one. i aint much on readin'. it makes my head ache." "i suppose you can't read very fast." "i can read the little words pretty well, but the big ones is what stick me." "if i lived in the city, you might come every evening to me, and i would teach you." "would you take so much trouble about me?" asked dick, earnestly. "certainly; i should like to see you getting on. there isn't much chance of that if you don't know how to read and write." "you're a good feller," said dick, gratefully. "i wish you did live in new york. i'd like to know somethin'. whereabouts do you live?" "about fifty miles off, in a town on the left bank of the hudson. i wish you'd come up and see me sometime. i would like to have you come and stop two or three days." "honor bright?" "i don't understand." "do you mean it?" asked dick, incredulously. "of course i do. why shouldn't i?" "what would your folks say if they knowed you asked a boot-black to visit you?" "you are none the worse for being a boot-black, dick." "i aint used to genteel society," said dick. "i shouldn't know how to behave." "then i could show you. you won't be a boot-black all your life, you know." "no," said dick; "i'm goin' to knock off when i get to be ninety." "before that, i hope," said frank, smiling. "i really wish i could get somethin' else to do," said dick, soberly. "i'd like to be a office boy, and learn business, and grow up 'spectable." "why don't you try, and see if you can't get a place, dick?" "who'd take ragged dick?" "but you aint ragged now, dick." "no," said dick; "i look a little better than i did in my washington coat and louis napoleon pants. but if i got in a office, they wouldn't give me more'n three dollars a week, and i couldn't live 'spectable on that." "no, i suppose not," said frank, thoughtfully. "but you would get more at the end of the first year." "yes," said dick; "but by that time i'd be nothin' but skin and bones." frank laughed. "that reminds me," he said, "of the story of an irishman, who, out of economy, thought he would teach his horse to feed on shavings. so he provided the horse with a pair of green spectacles which made the shavings look eatable. but unfortunately, just as the horse got learned, he up and died." "the hoss must have been a fine specimen of architectur' by the time he got through," remarked dick. "whereabouts are we now?" asked frank, as they emerged from fourth avenue into union square. "that is union park," said dick, pointing to a beautiful enclosure, in the centre of which was a pond, with a fountain playing. "is that the statue of general washington?" asked frank, pointing to a bronze equestrian statue, on a granite pedestal. "yes," said dick; "he's growed some since he was president. if he'd been as tall as that when he fit in the revolution, he'd have walloped the britishers some, i reckon." frank looked up at the statue, which is fourteen and a half feet high, and acknowledged the justice of dick's remark. "how about the coat, dick?" he asked. "would it fit you?" "well, it might be rather loose," said dick, "i aint much more'n ten feet high with my boots off." "no, i should think not," said frank, smiling. "you're a queer boy, dick." "well, i've been brought up queer. some boys is born with a silver spoon in their mouth. victoria's boys is born with a gold spoon, set with di'monds; but gold and silver was scarce when i was born, and mine was pewter." "perhaps the gold and silver will come by and by, dick. did you ever hear of dick whittington?" "never did. was he a ragged dick?" "i shouldn't wonder if he was. at any rate he was very poor when he was a boy, but he didn't stay so. before he died, he became lord mayor of london." "did he?" asked dick, looking interested. "how did he do it?" "why, you see, a rich merchant took pity on him, and gave him a home in his own house, where he used to stay with the servants, being employed in little errands. one day the merchant noticed dick picking up pins and needles that had been dropped, and asked him why he did it. dick told him he was going to sell them when he got enough. the merchant was pleased with his saving disposition, and when soon after, he was going to send a vessel to foreign parts, he told dick he might send anything he pleased in it, and it should be sold to his advantage. now dick had nothing in the world but a kitten which had been given him a short time before." "how much taxes did he have to pay on it?" asked dick. "not very high, probably. but having only the kitten, he concluded to send it along. after sailing a good many months, during which the kitten grew up to be a strong cat, the ship touched at an island never before known, which happened to be infested with rats and mice to such an extent that they worried everybody's life out, and even ransacked the king's palace. to make a long story short, the captain, seeing how matters stood, brought dick's cat ashore, and she soon made the rats and mice scatter. the king was highly delighted when he saw what havoc she made among the rats and mice, and resolved to have her at any price. so he offered a great quantity of gold for her, which, of course, the captain was glad to accept. it was faithfully carried back to dick, and laid the foundation of his fortune. he prospered as he grew up, and in time became a very rich merchant, respected by all, and before he died was elected lord mayor of london." "that's a pretty good story," said dick; "but i don't believe all the cats in new york will ever make me mayor." "no, probably not, but you may rise in some other way. a good many distinguished men have once been poor boys. there's hope for you, dick, if you'll try." "nobody ever talked to me so before," said dick. "they just called me ragged dick, and told me i'd grow up to be a vagabone (boys who are better educated need not be surprised at dick's blunders) and come to the gallows." "telling you so won't make it turn out so, dick. if you'll try to be somebody, and grow up into a respectable member of society, you will. you may not become rich,--it isn't everybody that becomes rich, you know--but you can obtain a good position, and be respected." "i'll try," said dick, earnestly. "i needn't have been ragged dick so long if i hadn't spent my money in goin' to the theatre, and treatin' boys to oyster-stews, and bettin' money on cards, and such like." "have you lost money that way?" "lots of it. one time i saved up five dollars to buy me a new rig-out, cos my best suit was all in rags, when limpy jim wanted me to play a game with him." "limpy jim?" said frank, interrogatively. "yes, he's lame; that's what makes us call him limpy jim." "i suppose you lost?" "yes, i lost every penny, and had to sleep out, cos i hadn't a cent to pay for lodgin'. 'twas a awful cold night, and i got most froze." "wouldn't jim let you have any of the money he had won to pay for a lodging?" "no; i axed him for five cents, but he wouldn't let me have it." "can you get lodging for five cents?" asked frank, in surprise. "yes," said dick, "but not at the fifth avenue hotel. that's it right out there." chapter vii the pocket-book they had reached the junction of broadway and of fifth avenue. before them was a beautiful park of ten acres. on the left-hand side was a large marble building, presenting a fine appearance with its extensive white front. this was the building at which dick pointed. "is that the fifth avenue hotel?" asked frank. "i've heard of it often. my uncle william always stops there when he comes to new york." "i once slept on the outside of it," said dick. "they was very reasonable in their charges, and told me i might come again." "perhaps sometime you'll be able to sleep inside," said frank. "i guess that'll be when queen victoria goes to the five points to live." "it looks like a palace," said frank. "the queen needn't be ashamed to live in such a beautiful building as that." though frank did not know it, one of the queen's palaces is far from being as fine a looking building as the fifth avenue hotel. st. james' palace is a very ugly-looking brick structure, and appears much more like a factory than like the home of royalty. there are few hotels in the world as fine-looking as this democratic institution. at that moment a gentleman passed them on the sidewalk, who looked back at dick, as if his face seemed familiar. "i know that man," said dick, after he had passed. "he's one of my customers." "what is his name?" "i don't know." "he looked back as if he thought he knew you." "he would have knowed me at once if it hadn't been for my new clothes," said dick. "i don't look much like ragged dick now." "i suppose your face looked familiar." "all but the dirt," said dick, laughing. "i don't always have the chance of washing my face and hands in the astor house." "you told me," said frank, "that there was a place where you could get lodging for five cents. where's that?" "it's the news-boys' lodgin' house, on fulton street," said dick, "up over the 'sun' office. it's a good place. i don't know what us boys would do without it. they give you supper for six cents, and a bed for five cents more." "i suppose some boys don't even have the five cents to pay,--do they?" "they'll trust the boys," said dick. "but i don't like to get trusted. i'd be ashamed to get trusted for five cents, or ten either. one night i was comin' down chatham street, with fifty cents in my pocket. i was goin' to get a good oyster-stew, and then go to the lodgin' house; but somehow it slipped through a hole in my trowses-pocket, and i hadn't a cent left. if it had been summer i shouldn't have cared, but it's rather tough stayin' out winter nights." frank, who had always possessed a good home of his own, found it hard to realize that the boy who was walking at his side had actually walked the streets in the cold without a home, or money to procure the common comfort of a bed. "what did you do?" he asked, his voice full of sympathy. "i went to the 'times' office. i knowed one of the pressmen, and he let me set down in a corner, where i was warm, and i soon got fast asleep." "why don't you get a room somewhere, and so always have a home to go to?" "i dunno," said dick. "i never thought of it. p'rhaps i may hire a furnished house on madison square." "that's where flora mcflimsey lived." "i don't know her," said dick, who had never read the popular poem of which she is the heroine. while this conversation was going on, they had turned into twenty-fifth street, and had by this time reached third avenue. just before entering it, their attention was drawn to the rather singular conduct of an individual in front of them. stopping suddenly, he appeared to pick up something from the sidewalk, and then looked about him in rather a confused way. "i know his game," whispered dick. "come along and you'll see what it is." he hurried frank forward until they overtook the man, who had come to a stand-still. "have you found anything?" asked dick. "yes," said the man, "i've found this." he exhibited a wallet which seemed stuffed with bills, to judge from its plethoric appearance. "whew!" exclaimed dick; "you're in luck." "i suppose somebody has lost it," said the man, "and will offer a handsome reward." "which you'll get." "unfortunately i am obliged to take the next train to boston. that's where i live. i haven't time to hunt up the owner." "then i suppose you'll take the pocket-book with you," said dick, with assumed simplicity. "i should like to leave it with some honest fellow who would see it returned to the owner," said the man, glancing at the boys. "i'm honest," said dick. "i've no doubt of it," said the other. "well, young man, i'll make you an offer. you take the pocket-book--" "all right. hand it over, then." "wait a minute. there must be a large sum inside. i shouldn't wonder if there might be a thousand dollars. the owner will probably give you a hundred dollars reward." "why don't you stay and get it?" asked frank. "i would, only there is sickness in my family, and i must get home as soon as possible. just give me twenty dollars, and i'll hand you the pocket-book, and let you make whatever you can out of it. come, that's a good offer. what do you say?" dick was well dressed, so that the other did not regard it as at all improbable that he might possess that sum. he was prepared, however, to let him have it for less, if necessary. "twenty dollars is a good deal of money," said dick, appearing to hesitate. "you'll get it back, and a good deal more," said the stranger, persuasively. "i don't know but i shall. what would you do, frank?" "i don't know but i would," said frank, "if you've got the money." he was not a little surprised to think that dick had so much by him. "i don't know but i will," said dick, after some irresolution. "i guess i won't lose much." "you can't lose anything," said the stranger briskly. "only be quick, for i must be on my way to the cars. i am afraid i shall miss them now." dick pulled out a bill from his pocket, and handed it to the stranger, receiving the pocket-book in return. at that moment a policeman turned the corner, and the stranger, hurriedly thrusting the bill into his pocket, without looking at it, made off with rapid steps. "what is there in the pocket-book, dick?" asked frank in some excitement. "i hope there's enough to pay you for the money you gave him." dick laughed. "i'll risk that," said he. "but you gave him twenty dollars. that's a good deal of money." "if i had given him as much as that, i should deserve to be cheated out of it." "but you did,--didn't you?" "he thought so." "what was it, then?" "it was nothing but a dry-goods circular got up to imitate a bank-bill." frank looked sober. "you ought not to have cheated him, dick," he said, reproachfully. "didn't he want to cheat me?" "i don't know." "what do you s'pose there is in that pocket-book?" asked dick, holding it up. frank surveyed its ample proportions, and answered sincerely enough, "money, and a good deal of it." "there aint stamps enough in it to buy a oyster-stew," said dick. "if you don't believe it, just look while i open it." so saying he opened the pocket-book, and showed frank that it was stuffed out with pieces of blank paper, carefully folded up in the shape of bills. frank, who was unused to city life, and had never heard anything of the "drop-game" looked amazed at this unexpected development. "i knowed how it was all the time," said dick. "i guess i got the best of him there. this wallet's worth somethin'. i shall use it to keep my stiffkit's of erie stock in, and all my other papers what aint of no use to anybody but the owner." "that's the kind of papers it's got in it now," said frank, smiling. "that's so!" said dick. "by hokey!" he exclaimed suddenly, "if there aint the old chap comin' back ag'in. he looks as if he'd heard bad news from his sick family." by this time the pocket-book dropper had come up. approaching the boys, he said in an undertone to dick, "give me back that pocket-book, you young rascal!" "beg your pardon, mister," said dick, "but was you addressin' me?" "yes, i was." "'cause you called me by the wrong name. i've knowed some rascals, but i aint the honor to belong to the family." he looked significantly at the other as he spoke, which didn't improve the man's temper. accustomed to swindle others, he did not fancy being practised upon in return. "give me back that pocket-book," he repeated in a threatening voice. "couldn't do it," said dick, coolly. "i'm go'n' to restore it to the owner. the contents is so valooable that most likely the loss has made him sick, and he'll be likely to come down liberal to the honest finder." "you gave me a bogus bill," said the man. "it's what i use myself," said dick. "you've swindled me." "i thought it was the other way." "none of your nonsense," said the man angrily. "if you don't give up that pocket-book, i'll call a policeman." "i wish you would," said dick. "they'll know most likely whether it's stewart or astor that's lost the pocket-book, and i can get 'em to return it." the "dropper," whose object it was to recover the pocket-book, in order to try the same game on a more satisfactory customer, was irritated by dick's refusal, and above all by the coolness he displayed. he resolved to make one more attempt. "do you want to pass the night in the tombs?" he asked. "thank you for your very obligin' proposal," said dick; "but it aint convenient to-day. any other time, when you'd like to have me come and stop with you, i'm agreeable; but my two youngest children is down with the measles, and i expect i'll have to set up all night to take care of 'em. is the tombs, in gineral, a pleasant place of residence?" dick asked this question with an air of so much earnestness that frank could scarcely forbear laughing, though it is hardly necessary to say that the dropper was by no means so inclined. "you'll know sometime," he said, scowling. "i'll make you a fair offer," said dick. "if i get more'n fifty dollars as a reward for my honesty, i'll divide with you. but i say, aint it most time to go back to your sick family in boston?" finding that nothing was to be made out of dick, the man strode away with a muttered curse. "you were too smart for him, dick," said frank. "yes," said dick, "i aint knocked round the city streets all my life for nothin'." chapter viii dick's early history "have you always lived in new york, dick?" asked frank, after a pause. "ever since i can remember." "i wish you'd tell me a little about yourself. have you got any father or mother?" "i aint got no mother. she died when i wasn't but three years old. my father went to sea; but he went off before mother died, and nothin' was ever heard of him. i expect he got wrecked, or died at sea." "and what became of you when your mother died?" "the folks she boarded with took care of me, but they was poor, and they couldn't do much. when i was seven the woman died, and her husband went out west, and then i had to scratch for myself." "at seven years old!" exclaimed frank, in amazement. "yes," said dick, "i was a little feller to take care of myself, but," he continued with pardonable pride, "i did it." "what could you do?" "sometimes one thing, and sometimes another," said dick. "i changed my business accordin' as i had to. sometimes i was a newsboy, and diffused intelligence among the masses, as i heard somebody say once in a big speech he made in the park. them was the times when horace greeley and james gordon bennett made money." "through your enterprise?" suggested frank. "yes," said dick; "but i give it up after a while." "what for?" "well, they didn't always put news enough in their papers, and people wouldn't buy 'em as fast as i wanted 'em to. so one mornin' i was stuck on a lot of heralds, and i thought i'd make a sensation. so i called out 'great news! queen victoria assassinated!' all my heralds went off like hot cakes, and i went off, too, but one of the gentlemen what got sold remembered me, and said he'd have me took up, and that's what made me change my business." "that wasn't right, dick," said frank. "i know it," said dick; "but lots of boys does it." "that don't make it any better." "no," said dick, "i was sort of ashamed at the time, 'specially about one poor old gentleman,--a englishman he was. he couldn't help cryin' to think the queen was dead, and his hands shook when he handed me the money for the paper." "what did you do next?" "i went into the match business," said dick; "but it was small sales and small profits. most of the people i called on had just laid in a stock, and didn't want to buy. so one cold night, when i hadn't money enough to pay for a lodgin', i burned the last of my matches to keep me from freezin'. but it cost too much to get warm that way, and i couldn't keep it up." "you've seen hard times, dick," said frank, compassionately. "yes," said dick, "i've knowed what it was to be hungry and cold, with nothin' to eat or to warm me; but there's one thing i never could do," he added, proudly. "what's that?" "i never stole," said dick. "it's mean and i wouldn't do it." "were you ever tempted to?" "lots of times. once i had been goin' round all day, and hadn't sold any matches, except three cents' worth early in the mornin'. with that i bought an apple, thinkin' i should get some more bimeby. when evenin' come i was awful hungry. i went into a baker's just to look at the bread. it made me feel kind o' good just to look at the bread and cakes, and i thought maybe they would give me some. i asked 'em wouldn't they give me a loaf, and take their pay in matches. but they said they'd got enough matches to last three months; so there wasn't any chance for a trade. while i was standin' at the stove warmin' me, the baker went into a back room, and i felt so hungry i thought i would take just one loaf, and go off with it. there was such a big pile i don't think he'd have known it." "but you didn't do it?" "no, i didn't and i was glad of it, for when the man came in ag'in, he said he wanted some one to carry some cake to a lady in st. mark's place. his boy was sick, and he hadn't no one to send; so he told me he'd give me ten cents if i would go. my business wasn't very pressin' just then, so i went, and when i come back, i took my pay in bread and cakes. didn't they taste good, though?" "so you didn't stay long in the match business, dick?" "no, i couldn't sell enough to make it pay. then there was some folks that wanted me to sell cheaper to them; so i couldn't make any profit. there was one old lady--she was rich, too, for she lived in a big brick house--beat me down so, that i didn't make no profit at all; but she wouldn't buy without, and i hadn't sold none that day; so i let her have them. i don't see why rich folks should be so hard upon a poor boy that wants to make a livin'." "there's a good deal of meanness in the world, i'm afraid, dick." "if everybody was like you and your uncle," said dick, "there would be some chance for poor people. if i was rich i'd try to help 'em along." "perhaps you will be rich sometime, dick." dick shook his head. "i'm afraid all my wallets will be like this," said dick, indicating the one he had received from the dropper, "and will be full of papers what aint of no use to anybody except the owner." "that depends very much on yourself, dick," said frank. "stewart wasn't always rich, you know." "wasn't he?" "when he first came to new york as a young man he was a teacher, and teachers are not generally very rich. at last he went into business, starting in a small way, and worked his way up by degrees. but there was one thing he determined in the beginning: that he would be strictly honorable in all his dealings, and never overreach any one for the sake of making money. if there was a chance for him, dick, there is a chance for you." "he knowed enough to be a teacher, and i'm awful ignorant," said dick. "but you needn't stay so." "how can i help it?" "can't you learn at school?" "i can't go to school 'cause i've got my livin' to earn. it wouldn't do me much good if i learned to read and write, and just as i'd got learned i starved to death." "but are there no night-schools?" "yes." "why don't you go? i suppose you don't work in the evenings." "i never cared much about it," said dick, "and that's the truth. but since i've got to talkin' with you, i think more about it. i guess i'll begin to go." "i wish you would, dick. you'll make a smart man if you only get a little education." "do you think so?" asked dick, doubtfully. "i know so. a boy who has earned his own living since he was seven years old must have something in him. i feel very much interested in you, dick. you've had a hard time of it so far in life, but i think better times are in store. i want you to do well, and i feel sure you can if you only try." "you're a good fellow," said dick, gratefully. "i'm afraid i'm a pretty rough customer, but i aint as bad as some. i mean to turn over a new leaf, and try to grow up 'spectable." "there've been a great many boys begin as low down as you, dick, that have grown up respectable and honored. but they had to work pretty hard for it." "i'm willin' to work hard," said dick. "and you must not only work hard, but work in the right way." "what's the right way?" "you began in the right way when you determined never to steal, or do anything mean or dishonorable, however strongly tempted to do so. that will make people have confidence in you when they come to know you. but, in order to succeed well, you must manage to get as good an education as you can. until you do, you cannot get a position in an office or counting-room, even to run errands." "that's so," said dick, soberly. "i never thought how awful ignorant i was till now." "that can be remedied with perseverance," said frank. "a year will do a great deal for you." "i'll go to work and see what i can do," said dick, energetically. chapter ix a scene in a third avenue car the boys had turned into third avenue, a long street, which, commencing just below the cooper institute, runs out to harlem. a man came out of a side street, uttering at intervals a monotonous cry which sounded like "glass puddin'." "glass pudding!" repeated frank, looking in surprised wonder at dick. "what does he mean?" "perhaps you'd like some," said dick. "i never heard of it before." "suppose you ask him what he charges for his puddin'." frank looked more narrowly at the man, and soon concluded that he was a glazier. "oh, i understand," he said. "he means 'glass put in.'" frank's mistake was not a singular one. the monotonous cry of these men certainly sounds more like "glass puddin'," than the words they intend to utter. "now," said dick, "where shall we go?" "i should like to see central park," said frank. "is it far off?" "it is about a mile and a half from here," said dick. "this is twenty-ninth street, and the park begins at fifty-ninth street." it may be explained, for the benefit of readers who have never visited new york, that about a mile from the city hall the cross-streets begin to be numbered in regular order. there is a continuous line of houses as far as one hundred and thirtieth street, where may be found the terminus of the harlem line of horse-cars. when the entire island is laid out and settled, probably the numbers will reach two hundred or more. central park, which lies between fifty-ninth street on the south, and one hundred and tenth street on the north, is true to its name, occupying about the centre of the island. the distance between two parallel streets is called a block, and twenty blocks make a mile. it will therefore be seen that dick was exactly right, when he said they were a mile and a half from central park. "that is too far to walk," said frank. "'twon't cost but six cents to ride," said dick. "you mean in the horse-cars?" "yes." "all right then. we'll jump aboard the next car." the third avenue and harlem line of horse-cars is better patronized than any other in new york, though not much can be said for the cars, which are usually dirty and overcrowded. still, when it is considered that only seven cents are charged for the entire distance to harlem, about seven miles from the city hall, the fare can hardly be complained of. but of course most of the profit is made from the way-passengers who only ride a short distance. a car was at that moment approaching, but it seemed pretty crowded. "shall we take that, or wait for another?" asked frank. "the next'll most likely be as bad," said dick. the boys accordingly signalled to the conductor to stop, and got on the front platform. they were obliged to stand up till the car reached fortieth street, when so many of the passengers had got off that they obtained seats. frank sat down beside a middle-aged woman, or lady, as she probably called herself, whose sharp visage and thin lips did not seem to promise a very pleasant disposition. when the two gentlemen who sat beside her arose, she spread her skirts in the endeavor to fill two seats. disregarding this, the boys sat down. "there aint room for two," she said, looking sourly at frank. "there were two here before." "well, there ought not to have been. some people like to crowd in where they're not wanted." "and some like to take up a double allowance of room," thought frank; but he did not say so. he saw that the woman had a bad temper, and thought it wisest to say nothing. frank had never ridden up the city as far as this, and it was with much interest that he looked out of the car windows at the stores on either side. third avenue is a broad street, but in the character of its houses and stores it is quite inferior to broadway, though better than some of the avenues further east. fifth avenue, as most of my readers already know, is the finest street in the city, being lined with splendid private residences, occupied by the wealthier classes. many of the cross streets also boast houses which may be considered palaces, so elegant are they externally and internally. frank caught glimpses of some of these as he was carried towards the park. after the first conversation, already mentioned, with the lady at his side, he supposed he should have nothing further to do with her. but in this he was mistaken. while he was busy looking out of the car window, she plunged her hand into her pocket in search of her purse, which she was unable to find. instantly she jumped to the conclusion that it had been stolen, and her suspicions fastened upon frank, with whom she was already provoked for "crowding her," as she termed it. "conductor!" she exclaimed in a sharp voice. "what's wanted, ma'am?" returned that functionary. "i want you to come here right off." "what's the matter?" "my purse has been stolen. there was four dollars and eighty cents in it. i know, because i counted it when i paid my fare." "who stole it?" "that boy," she said pointing to frank, who listened to the charge in the most intense astonishment. "he crowded in here on purpose to rob me, and i want you to search him right off." "that's a lie!" exclaimed dick, indignantly. "oh, you're in league with him, i dare say," said the woman spitefully. "you're as bad as he is, i'll be bound." "you're a nice female, you be!" said dick, ironically. "don't you dare to call me a female, sir," said the lady, furiously. "why, you aint a man in disguise, be you?" said dick. "you are very much mistaken, madam," said frank, quietly. "the conductor may search me, if you desire it." a charge of theft, made in a crowded car, of course made quite a sensation. cautious passengers instinctively put their hands on their pockets, to make sure that they, too, had not been robbed. as for frank, his face flushed, and he felt very indignant that he should even be suspected of so mean a crime. he had been carefully brought up, and been taught to regard stealing as low and wicked. dick, on the contrary, thought it a capital joke that such a charge should have been made against his companion. though he had brought himself up, and known plenty of boys and men, too, who would steal, he had never done so himself. he thought it mean. but he could not be expected to regard it as frank did. he had been too familiar with it in others to look upon it with horror. meanwhile the passengers rather sided with the boys. appearances go a great ways, and frank did not look like a thief. "i think you must be mistaken, madam," said a gentleman sitting opposite. "the lad does not look as if he would steal." "you can't tell by looks," said the lady, sourly. "they're deceitful; villains are generally well dressed." "be they?" said dick. "you'd ought to see me with my washington coat on. you'd think i was the biggest villain ever you saw." "i've no doubt you are," said the lady, scowling in the direction of our hero. "thank you, ma'am," said dick. "'tisn't often i get such fine compliments." "none of your impudence," said the lady, wrathfully. "i believe you're the worst of the two." meanwhile the car had been stopped. "how long are we going to stop here?" demanded a passenger, impatiently. "i'm in a hurry, if none of the rest of you are." "i want my pocket-book," said the lady, defiantly. "well, ma'am, i haven't got it, and i don't see as it's doing you any good detaining us all here." "conductor, will you call a policeman to search that young scamp?" continued the aggrieved lady. "you don't expect i'm going to lose my money, and do nothing about it." "i'll turn my pockets inside out if you want me to," said frank, proudly. "there's no need of a policeman. the conductor, or any one else, may search me." "well, youngster," said the conductor, "if the lady agrees, i'll search you." the lady signified her assent. frank accordingly turned his pockets inside out, but nothing was revealed except his own porte-monnaie and a penknife. "well, ma'am, are you satisfied?" asked the conductor. "no, i aint," said she, decidedly. "you don't think he's got it still?" "no, but he's passed it over to his confederate, that boy there that's so full of impudence." "that's me," said dick, comically. "he confesses it," said the lady; "i want him searched." "all right," said dick, "i'm ready for the operation, only, as i've got valooable property about me, be careful not to drop any of my erie bonds." the conductor's hand forthwith dove into dick's pocket, and drew out a rusty jack-knife, a battered cent, about fifty cents in change, and the capacious pocket-book which he had received from the swindler who was anxious to get back to his sick family in boston. "is that yours, ma'am?" asked the conductor, holding up the wallet which excited some amazement, by its size, among the other passengers. "it seems to me you carry a large pocket-book for a young man of your age," said the conductor. "that's what i carry my cash and valooable papers in," said dick. "i suppose that isn't yours, ma'am," said the conductor, turning to the lady. "no," said she, scornfully. "i wouldn't carry round such a great wallet as that. most likely he's stolen it from somebody else." "what a prime detective you'd be!" said dick. "p'rhaps you know who i took it from." "i don't know but my money's in it," said the lady, sharply. "conductor, will you open that wallet, and see what there is in it?" "don't disturb the valooable papers," said dick, in a tone of pretended anxiety. the contents of the wallet excited some amusement among the passengers. "there don't seem to be much money here," said the conductor, taking out a roll of tissue paper cut out in the shape of bills, and rolled up. "no," said dick. "didn't i tell you them were papers of no valoo to anybody but the owner? if the lady'd like to borrow, i won't charge no interest." "where is my money, then?" said the lady, in some discomfiture. "i shouldn't wonder if one of the young scamps had thrown it out of the window." "you'd better search your pocket once more," said the gentleman opposite. "i don't believe either of the boys is in fault. they don't look to me as if they would steal." "thank you, sir," said frank. the lady followed out the suggestion, and, plunging her hand once more into her pocket, drew out a small porte-monnaie. she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry at this discovery. it placed her in rather an awkward position after the fuss she had made, and the detention to which she had subjected the passengers, now, as it proved, for nothing. "is that the pocket-book you thought stolen?" asked the conductor. "yes," said she, rather confusedly. "then you've been keeping me waiting all this time for nothing," he said, sharply. "i wish you'd take care to be sure next time before you make such a disturbance for nothing. i've lost five minutes, and shall not be on time." "i can't help it," was the cross reply; "i didn't know it was in my pocket." "it seems to me you owe an apology to the boys you accused of a theft which they have not committed," said the gentleman opposite. "i shan't apologize to anybody," said the lady, whose temper was not of the best; "least of all to such whipper-snappers as they are." "thank you, ma'am," said dick, comically; "your handsome apology is accepted. it aint of no consequence, only i didn't like to expose the contents of my valooable pocket-book, for fear it might excite the envy of some of my poor neighbors." "you're a character," said the gentleman who had already spoken, with a smile. "a bad character!" muttered the lady. but it was quite evident that the sympathies of those present were against the lady, and on the side of the boys who had been falsely accused, while dick's drollery had created considerable amusement. the cars had now reached fifty-ninth street, the southern boundary of the park, and here our hero and his companion got off. "you'd better look out for pickpockets, my lad," said the conductor, pleasantly. "that big wallet of yours might prove a great temptation." "that's so," said dick. "that's the misfortin' of being rich. astor and me don't sleep much for fear of burglars breakin' in and robbin' us of our valooable treasures. sometimes i think i'll give all my money to an orphan asylum, and take it out in board. i guess i'd make money by the operation." while dick was speaking, the car rolled away, and the boys turned up fifty-ninth street, for two long blocks yet separated them from the park. chapter x introduces a victim of misplaced confidence "what a queer chap you are, dick!" said frank, laughing. "you always seem to be in good spirits." "no, i aint always. sometimes i have the blues." "when?" "well, once last winter it was awful cold, and there was big holes in my shoes, and my gloves and all my warm clothes was at the tailor's. i felt as if life was sort of tough, and i'd like it if some rich man would adopt me, and give me plenty to eat and drink and wear, without my havin' to look so sharp after it. then agin' when i've seen boys with good homes, and fathers, and mothers, i've thought i'd like to have somebody to care for me." dick's tone changed as he said this, from his usual levity, and there was a touch of sadness in it. frank, blessed with a good home and indulgent parents, could not help pitying the friendless boy who had found life such up-hill work. "don't say you have no one to care for you, dick," he said, lightly laying his hand on dick's shoulder. "i will care for you." "will you?" "if you will let me." "i wish you would," said dick, earnestly. "i'd like to feel that i have one friend who cares for me." central park was now before them, but it was far from presenting the appearance which it now exhibits. it had not been long since work had been commenced upon it, and it was still very rough and unfinished. a rough tract of land, two miles and a half from north to south, and a half a mile broad, very rocky in parts, was the material from which the park commissioners have made the present beautiful enclosure. there were no houses of good appearance near it, buildings being limited mainly to rude temporary huts used by the workmen who were employed in improving it. the time will undoubtedly come when the park will be surrounded by elegant residences, and compare favorably in this respect with the most attractive parts of any city in the world. but at the time when frank and dick visited it, not much could be said in favor either of the park or its neighborhood. "if this is central park," said frank, who naturally felt disappointed, "i don't think much of it. my father's got a large pasture that is much nicer." "it'll look better some time," said dick. "there aint much to see now but rocks. we will take a walk over it if you want to." "no," said frank, "i've seen as much of it as i want to. besides, i feel tired." "then we'll go back. we can take the sixth avenue cars. they will bring us out at vesey street just beside the astor house." "all right," said frank. "that will be the best course. i hope," he added, laughing, "our agreeable lady friend won't be there. i don't care about being accused of _stealing_ again." "she was a tough one," said dick. "wouldn't she make a nice wife for a man that likes to live in hot water, and didn't mind bein' scalded two or three times a day?" "yes, i think she'd just suit him. is that the right car, dick?" "yes, jump in, and i'll follow." the sixth avenue is lined with stores, many of them of very good appearance, and would make a very respectable principal street for a good-sized city. but it is only one of several long business streets which run up the island, and illustrate the extent and importance of the city to which they belong. no incidents worth mentioning took place during their ride down town. in about three-quarters of an hour the boys got out of the car beside the astor house. "are you goin' in now, frank?" asked dick. "that depends upon whether you have anything else to show me." "wouldn't you like to go to wall street?" "that's the street where there are so many bankers and brokers,--isn't it?" "yes, i s'pose you aint afraid of bulls and bears,--are you?" "bulls and bears?" repeated frank, puzzled. "yes." "what are they?" "the bulls is what tries to make the stocks go up, and the bears is what try to growl 'em down." "oh, i see. yes, i'd like to go." accordingly they walked down on the west side of broadway as far as trinity church, and then, crossing, entered a street not very wide or very long, but of very great importance. the reader would be astonished if he could know the amount of money involved in the transactions which take place in a single day in this street. it would be found that although broadway is much greater in length, and lined with stores, it stands second to wall street in this respect. "what is that large marble building?" asked frank, pointing to a massive structure on the corner of wall and nassau streets. it was in the form of a parallelogram, two hundred feet long by ninety wide, and about eighty feet in height, the ascent to the entrance being by eighteen granite steps. "that's the custom house," said dick. "it looks like pictures i've seen of the parthenon at athens," said frank, meditatively. "where's athens?" asked dick. "it aint in york state,--is it?" "not the athens i mean, at any rate. it is in greece, and was a famous city two thousand years ago." "that's longer than i can remember," said dick. "i can't remember distinctly more'n about a thousand years." "what a chap you are, dick! do you know if we can go in?" the boys ascertained, after a little inquiry, that they would be allowed to do so. they accordingly entered the custom house and made their way up to the roof, from which they had a fine view of the harbor, the wharves crowded with shipping, and the neighboring shores of long island and new jersey. towards the north they looked down for many miles upon continuous lines of streets, and thousands of roofs, with here and there a church-spire rising above its neighbors. dick had never before been up there, and he, as well as frank, was interested in the grand view spread before them. at length they descended, and were going down the granite steps on the outside of the building, when they were addressed by a young man, whose appearance is worth describing. he was tall, and rather loosely put together, with small eyes and rather a prominent nose. his clothing had evidently not been furnished by a city tailor. he wore a blue coat with brass buttons, and pantaloons of rather scanty dimensions, which were several inches too short to cover his lower limbs. he held in his hand a piece of paper, and his countenance wore a look of mingled bewilderment and anxiety. "be they a-payin' out money inside there?" he asked, indicating the interior by a motion of his hand. "i guess so," said dick. "are you a-goin' in for some?" "wal, yes. i've got an order here for sixty dollars,--made a kind of speculation this morning." "how was it?" asked frank. "wal, you see i brought down some money to put in the bank, fifty dollars it was, and i hadn't justly made up my mind what bank to put it into, when a chap came up in a terrible hurry, and said it was very unfortunate, but the bank wasn't open, and he must have some money right off. he was obliged to go out of the city by the next train. i asked him how much he wanted. he said fifty dollars. i told him i'd got that, and he offered me a check on the bank for sixty, and i let him have it. i thought that was a pretty easy way to earn ten dollars, so i counted out the money and he went off. he told me i'd hear a bell ring when they began to pay out money. but i've waited most two hours, and i haint heard it yet. i'd ought to be goin', for i told dad i'd be home to-night. do you think i can get the money now?" "will you show me the check?" asked frank, who had listened attentively to the countryman's story, and suspected that he had been made the victim of a swindler. it was made out upon the "washington bank," in the sum of sixty dollars, and was signed "ephraim smith." "washington bank!" repeated frank. "dick, is there such a bank in the city?" "not as i knows on," said dick. "leastways i don't own any shares in it." "aint this the washington bank?" asked the countryman, pointing to the building on the steps of which the three were now standing. "no, it's the custom house." "and won't they give me any money for this?" asked the young man, the perspiration standing on his brow. "i am afraid the man who gave it to you was a swindler," said frank, gently. "and won't i ever see my fifty dollars again?" asked the youth in agony. "i am afraid not." "what'll dad say?" ejaculated the miserable youth. "it makes me feel sick to think of it. i wish i had the feller here. i'd shake him out of his boots." "what did he look like? i'll call a policeman and you shall describe him. perhaps in that way you can get track of your money." dick called a policeman, who listened to the description, and recognized the operator as an experienced swindler. he assured the countryman that there was very little chance of his ever seeing his money again. the boys left the miserable youth loudly bewailing his bad luck, and proceeded on their way down the street. "he's a baby," said dick, contemptuously. "he'd ought to know how to take care of himself and his money. a feller has to look sharp in this city, or he'll lose his eye-teeth before he knows it." "i suppose you never got swindled out of fifty dollars, dick?" "no, i don't carry no such small bills. i wish i did," he added. "so do i, dick. what's that building there at the end of the street?" "that's the wall-street ferry to brooklyn." "how long does it take to go across?" "not more'n five minutes." "suppose we just ride over and back." "all right!" said dick. "it's rather expensive; but if you don't mind, i don't." "why, how much does it cost?" "two cents apiece." "i guess i can stand that. let us go." they passed the gate, paying the fare to a man who stood at the entrance, and were soon on the ferry-boat, bound for brooklyn. they had scarcely entered the boat, when dick, grasping frank by the arm, pointed to a man just outside of the gentlemen's cabin. "do you see that man, frank?" he inquired. "yes, what of him?" "he's the man that cheated the country chap out of his fifty dollars." chapter xi dick as a detective dick's ready identification of the rogue who had cheated the countryman, surprised frank. "what makes you think it is he?" he asked. "because i've seen him before, and i know he's up to them kind of tricks. when i heard how he looked, i was sure i knowed him." "our recognizing him won't be of much use," said frank. "it won't give back the countryman his money." "i don't know," said dick, thoughtfully. "may be i can get it." "how?" asked frank, incredulously. "wait a minute, and you'll see." dick left his companion, and went up to the man whom he suspected. "ephraim smith," said dick, in a low voice. the man turned suddenly, and looked at dick uneasily. "what did you say?" he asked. "i believe your name is ephraim smith," continued dick. "you're mistaken," said the man, and was about to move off. "stop a minute," said dick. "don't you keep your money in the washington bank?" "i don't know any such bank. i'm in a hurry, young man, and i can't stop to answer any foolish questions." the boat had by this time reached the brooklyn pier, and mr. ephraim smith seemed in a hurry to land. "look here," said dick, significantly; "you'd better not go on shore unless you want to jump into the arms of a policeman." "what do you mean?" asked the man, startled. "that little affair of yours is known to the police," said dick; "about how you got fifty dollars out of a greenhorn on a false check, and it mayn't be safe for you to go ashore." "i don't know what you're talking about," said the swindler with affected boldness, though dick could see that he was ill at ease. "yes you do," said dick. "there isn't but one thing to do. just give me back that money, and i'll see that you're not touched. if you don't, i'll give you up to the first p'liceman we meet." dick looked so determined, and spoke so confidently, that the other, overcome by his fears, no longer hesitated, but passed a roll of bills to dick and hastily left the boat. all this frank witnessed with great amazement, not understanding what influence dick could have obtained over the swindler sufficient to compel restitution. "how did you do it?" he asked eagerly. "i told him i'd exert my influence with the president to have him tried by _habeas corpus_," said dick. "and of course that frightened him. but tell me, without joking, how you managed." dick gave a truthful account of what occurred, and then said, "now we'll go back and carry the money." "suppose we don't find the poor countryman?" "then the p'lice will take care of it." they remained on board the boat, and in five minutes were again in new york. going up wall street, they met the countryman a little distance from the custom house. his face was marked with the traces of deep anguish; but in his case even grief could not subdue the cravings of appetite. he had purchased some cakes of one of the old women who spread out for the benefit of passers-by an array of apples and seed-cakes, and was munching them with melancholy satisfaction. "hilloa!" said dick. "have you found your money?" "no," ejaculated the young man, with a convulsive gasp. "i shan't ever see it again. the mean skunk's cheated me out of it. consarn his picter! it took me most six months to save it up. i was workin' for deacon pinkham in our place. oh, i wish i'd never come to new york! the deacon, he told me he'd keep it for me; but i wanted to put it in the bank, and now it's all gone, boo hoo!" and the miserable youth, having despatched his cakes, was so overcome by the thought of his loss that he burst into tears. "i say," said dick, "dry up, and see what i've got here." the youth no sooner saw the roll of bills, and comprehended that it was indeed his lost treasure, than from the depths of anguish he was exalted to the most ecstatic joy. he seized dick's hand, and shook it with so much energy that our hero began to feel rather alarmed for its safety. "'pears to me you take my arm for a pump-handle," said he. "couldn't you show your gratitood some other way? it's just possible i may want to use my arm ag'in some time." the young man desisted, but invited dick most cordially to come up and stop a week with him at his country home, assuring him that he wouldn't charge him anything for board. "all right!" said dick. "if you don't mind i'll bring my wife along, too. she's delicate, and the country air might do her good." jonathan stared at him in amazement, uncertain whether to credit the fact of his marriage. dick walked on with frank, leaving him in an apparent state of stupefaction, and it is possible that he has not yet settled the affair to his satisfaction. "now," said frank, "i think i'll go back to the astor house. uncle has probably got through his business and returned." "all right," said dick. the two boys walked up to broadway, just where the tall steeple of trinity faces the street of bankers and brokers, and walked leisurely to the hotel. when they arrived at the astor house, dick said, "good-by, frank." "not yet," said frank; "i want you to come in with me." dick followed his young patron up the steps. frank went to the reading-room, where, as he had thought probable, he found his uncle already arrived, and reading a copy of "the evening post," which he had just purchased outside. "well, boys," he said, looking up, "have you had a pleasant jaunt?" "yes, sir," said frank. "dick's a capital guide." "so this is dick," said mr. whitney, surveying him with a smile. "upon my word, i should hardly have known him. i must congratulate him on his improved appearance." "frank's been very kind to me," said dick, who, rough street-boy as he was, had a heart easily touched by kindness, of which he had never experienced much. "he's a tip-top fellow." "i believe he is a good boy," said mr. whitney. "i hope, my lad, you will prosper and rise in the world. you know in this free country poverty in early life is no bar to a man's advancement. i haven't risen very high myself," he added, with a smile, "but have met with moderate success in life; yet there was a time when i was as poor as you." "were you, sir," asked dick, eagerly. "yes, my boy, i have known the time i have been obliged to go without my dinner because i didn't have enough money to pay for it." "how did you get up in the world," asked dick, anxiously. "i entered a printing-office as an apprentice, and worked for some years. then my eyes gave out and i was obliged to give that up. not knowing what else to do, i went into the country, and worked on a farm. after a while i was lucky enough to invent a machine, which has brought me in a great deal of money. but there was one thing i got while i was in the printing-office which i value more than money." "what was that, sir?" "a taste for reading and study. during my leisure hours i improved myself by study, and acquired a large part of the knowledge which i now possess. indeed, it was one of my books that first put me on the track of the invention, which i afterwards made. so you see, my lad, that my studious habits paid me in money, as well as in another way." "i'm awful ignorant," said dick, soberly. "but you are young, and, i judge, a smart boy. if you try to learn, you can, and if you ever expect to do anything in the world, you must know something of books." "i will," said dick, resolutely. "i aint always goin' to black boots for a livin'." "all labor is respectable, my lad, and you have no cause to be ashamed of any honest business; yet when you can get something to do that promises better for your future prospects, i advise you to do so. till then earn your living in the way you are accustomed to, avoid extravagance, and save up a little money if you can." "thank you for your advice," said our hero. "there aint many that takes an interest in ragged dick." "so that's your name," said mr. whitney. "if i judge you rightly, it won't be long before you change it. save your money, my lad, buy books, and determine to be somebody, and you may yet fill an honorable position." "i'll try," said dick. "good-night, sir." "wait a minute, dick," said frank. "your blacking-box and old clothes are upstairs. you may want them." "in course," said dick. "i couldn't get along without my best clothes, and my stock in trade." "you may go up to the room with him, frank," said mr. whitney. "the clerk will give you the key. i want to see you, dick, before you go." "yes, sir," said dick. "where are you going to sleep to-night, dick?" asked frank, as they went upstairs together. "p'r'aps at the fifth avenue hotel--on the outside," said dick. "haven't you any place to sleep, then?" "i slept in a box, last night." "in a box?" "yes, on spruce street." "poor fellow!" said frank, compassionately. "oh, 'twas a bully bed--full of straw! i slept like a top." "don't you earn enough to pay for a room, dick?" "yes," said dick; "only i spend my money foolish, goin' to the old bowery, and tony pastor's, and sometimes gamblin' in baxter street." "you won't gamble any more,--will you, dick?" said frank, laying his hand persuasively on his companion's shoulder. "no, i won't," said dick. "you'll promise?" "yes, and i'll keep it. you're a good feller. i wish you was goin' to be in new york." "i am going to a boarding-school in connecticut. the name of the town is barnton. will you write to me, dick?" "my writing would look like hens' tracks," said our hero. "never mind. i want you to write. when you write you can tell me how to direct, and i will send you a letter." "i wish you would," said dick. "i wish i was more like you." "i hope you will make a much better boy, dick. now we'll go in to my uncle. he wishes to see you before you go." they went into the reading-room. dick had wrapped up his blacking-brush in a newspaper with which frank had supplied him, feeling that a guest of the astor house should hardly be seen coming out of the hotel displaying such a professional sign. "uncle, dick's ready to go," said frank. "good-by, my lad," said mr. whitney. "i hope to hear good accounts of you sometime. don't forget what i have told you. remember that your future position depends mainly upon yourself, and that it will be high or low as you choose to make it." he held out his hand, in which was a five-dollar bill. dick shrunk back. "i don't like to take it," he said. "i haven't earned it." "perhaps not," said mr. whitney; "but i give it to you because i remember my own friendless youth. i hope it may be of service to you. sometime when you are a prosperous man, you can repay it in the form of aid to some poor boy, who is struggling upward as you are now." "i will, sir," said dick, manfully. he no longer refused the money, but took it gratefully, and, bidding frank and his uncle good-by, went out into the street. a feeling of loneliness came over him as he left the presence of frank, for whom he had formed a strong attachment in the few hours he had known him. chapter xii dick hires a room on mott street going out into the fresh air dick felt the pangs of hunger. he accordingly went to a restaurant and got a substantial supper. perhaps it was the new clothes he wore, which made him feel a little more aristocratic. at all events, instead of patronizing the cheap restaurant where he usually procured his meals, he went into the refectory attached to lovejoy's hotel, where the prices were higher and the company more select. in his ordinary dress, dick would have been excluded, but now he had the appearance of a very respectable, gentlemanly boy, whose presence would not discredit any establishment. his orders were therefore received with attention by the waiter and in due time a good supper was placed before him. "i wish i could come here every day," thought dick. "it seems kind o' nice and 'spectable, side of the other place. there's a gent at that other table that i've shined boots for more'n once. he don't know me in my new clothes. guess he don't know his boot-black patronizes the same establishment." his supper over, dick went up to the desk, and, presenting his check, tendered in payment his five-dollar bill, as if it were one of a large number which he possessed. receiving back his change he went out into the street. two questions now arose: how should he spend the evening, and where should he pass the night? yesterday, with such a sum of money in his possession, he would have answered both questions readily. for the evening, he would have passed it at the old bowery, and gone to sleep in any out-of-the-way place that offered. but he had turned over a new leaf, or resolved to do so. he meant to save his money for some useful purpose,--to aid his advancement in the world. so he could not afford the theatre. besides, with his new clothes, he was unwilling to pass the night out of doors. "i should spile 'em," he thought, "and that wouldn't pay." so he determined to hunt up a room which he could occupy regularly, and consider as his own, where he could sleep nights, instead of depending on boxes and old wagons for a chance shelter. this would be the first step towards respectability, and dick determined to take it. he accordingly passed through the city hall park, and walked leisurely up centre street. he decided that it would hardly be advisable for him to seek lodgings in fifth avenue, although his present cash capital consisted of nearly five dollars in money, besides the valuable papers contained in his wallet. besides, he had reason to doubt whether any in his line of business lived on that aristocratic street. he took his way to mott street, which is considerably less pretentious, and halted in front of a shabby brick lodging-house kept by a mrs. mooney, with whose son tom, dick was acquainted. dick rang the bell, which sent back a shrill metallic response. the door was opened by a slatternly servant, who looked at him inquiringly, and not without curiosity. it must be remembered that dick was well dressed, and that nothing in his appearance bespoke his occupation. being naturally a good-looking boy, he might readily be mistaken for a gentleman's son. "well, queen victoria," said dick, "is your missus at home?" "my name's bridget," said the girl. "oh, indeed!" said dick. "you looked so much like the queen's picter what she gave me last christmas in exchange for mine, that i couldn't help calling you by her name." "oh, go along wid ye!" said bridget. "it's makin' fun ye are." "if you don't believe me," said dick, gravely, "all you've got to do is to ask my partic'lar friend, the duke of newcastle." "bridget!" called a shrill voice from the basement. "the missus is calling me," said bridget, hurriedly. "i'll tell her ye want her." "all right!" said dick. the servant descended into the lower regions, and in a short time a stout, red-faced woman appeared on the scene. "well, sir, what's your wish?" she asked. "have you got a room to let?" asked dick. "is it for yourself you ask?" questioned the woman, in some surprise. dick answered in the affirmative. "i haven't got any very good rooms vacant. there's a small room in the third story." "i'd like to see it," said dick. "i don't know as it would be good enough for you," said the woman, with a glance at dick's clothes. "i aint very partic'lar about accommodations," said our hero. "i guess i'll look at it." dick followed the landlady up two narrow stair-cases, uncarpeted and dirty, to the third landing, where he was ushered into a room about ten feet square. it could not be considered a very desirable apartment. it had once been covered with an oilcloth carpet, but this was now very ragged, and looked worse than none. there was a single bed in the corner, covered with an indiscriminate heap of bed-clothing, rumpled and not over-clean. there was a bureau, with the veneering scratched and in some parts stripped off, and a small glass, eight inches by ten, cracked across the middle; also two chairs in rather a disjointed condition. judging from dick's appearance, mrs. mooney thought he would turn from it in disdain. but it must be remembered that dick's past experience had not been of a character to make him fastidious. in comparison with a box, or an empty wagon, even this little room seemed comfortable. he decided to hire it if the rent proved reasonable. "well, what's the tax?" asked dick. "i ought to have a dollar a week," said mrs. mooney, hesitatingly. "say seventy-five cents, and i'll take it," said dick. "every week in advance?" "yes." "well, as times is hard, and i can't afford to keep it empty, you may have it. when will you come?" "to-night," said dick. "it aint lookin' very neat. i don't know as i can fix it up to-night." "well, i'll sleep here to-night, and you can fix it up to-morrow." "i hope you'll excuse the looks. i'm a lone woman, and my help is so shiftless, i have to look after everything myself; so i can't keep things as straight as i want to." "all right!" said dick. "can you pay me the first week in advance?" asked the landlady, cautiously. dick responded by drawing seventy-five cents from his pocket, and placing it in her hand. "what's your business, sir, if i may inquire?" said mrs. mooney. "oh, i'm professional!" said dick. "indeed!" said the landlady, who did not feel much enlightened by this answer. "how's tom?" asked dick. "do you know my tom?" said mrs. mooney in surprise. "he's gone to sea,--to californy. he went last week." "did he?" said dick. "yes, i knew him." mrs. mooney looked upon her new lodger with increased favor, on finding that he was acquainted with her son, who, by the way, was one of the worst young scamps in mott street, which is saying considerable. "i'll bring over my baggage from the astor house this evening," said dick in a tone of importance. "from the astor house!" repeated mrs. mooney, in fresh amazement. "yes, i've been stoppin' there a short time with some friends," said dick. mrs. mooney might be excused for a little amazement at finding that a guest from the astor house was about to become one of her lodgers--such transfers not being common. "did you say you was purfessional?" she asked. "yes, ma'am," said dick, politely. "you aint a--a--" mrs. mooney paused, uncertain what conjecture to hazard. "oh, no, nothing of the sort," said dick, promptly. "how could you think so, mrs. mooney?" "no offence, sir," said the landlady, more perplexed than ever. "certainly not," said our hero. "but you must excuse me now, mrs. mooney, as i have business of great importance to attend to." "you'll come round this evening?" dick answered in the affirmative, and turned away. "i wonder what he is!" thought the landlady, following him with her eyes as he crossed the street. "he's got good clothes on, but he don't seem very particular about his room. well; i've got all my rooms full now. that's one comfort." dick felt more comfortable now that he had taken the decisive step of hiring a lodging, and paying a week's rent in advance. for seven nights he was sure of a shelter and a bed to sleep in. the thought was a pleasant one to our young vagrant, who hitherto had seldom known when he rose in the morning where he should find a resting-place at night. "i must bring my traps round," said dick to himself. "i guess i'll go to bed early to-night. it'll feel kinder good to sleep in a reg'lar bed. boxes is rather hard to the back, and aint comfortable in case of rain. i wonder what johnny nolan would say if he knew i'd got a room of my own." chapter xiii micky maguire about nine o'clock dick sought his new lodgings. in his hands he carried his professional wardrobe, namely, the clothes which he had worn at the commencement of the day, and the implements of his business. these he stowed away in the bureau drawers, and by the light of a flickering candle took off his clothes and went to bed. dick had a good digestion and a reasonably good conscience; consequently he was a good sleeper. perhaps, too, the soft feather bed conduced to slumber. at any rate his eyes were soon closed, and he did not awake until half-past six the next morning. he lifted himself on his elbow, and stared around him in transient bewilderment. "blest if i hadn't forgot where i was," he said to himself. "so this is my room, is it? well, it seems kind of 'spectable to have a room and a bed to sleep in. i'd orter be able to afford seventy-five cents a week. i've throwed away more money than that in one evenin'. there aint no reason why i shouldn't live 'spectable. i wish i knowed as much as frank. he's a tip-top feller. nobody ever cared enough for me before to give me good advice. it was kicks, and cuffs, and swearin' at me all the time. i'd like to show him i can do something." while dick was indulging in these reflections, he had risen from bed, and, finding an accession to the furniture of his room, in the shape of an ancient wash-stand bearing a cracked bowl and broken pitcher, indulged himself in the rather unusual ceremony of a good wash. on the whole, dick preferred to be clean, but it was not always easy to gratify his desire. lodging in the street as he had been accustomed to do, he had had no opportunity to perform his toilet in the customary manner. even now he found himself unable to arrange his dishevelled locks, having neither comb nor brush. he determined to purchase a comb, at least, as soon as possible, and a brush too, if he could get one cheap. meanwhile he combed his hair with his fingers as well as he could, though the result was not quite so satisfactory as it might have been. a question now came up for consideration. for the first time in his life dick possessed two suits of clothes. should he put on the clothes frank had given him, or resume his old rags? now, twenty-four hours before, at the time dick was introduced to the reader's notice, no one could have been less fastidious as to his clothing than he. indeed, he had rather a contempt for good clothes, or at least he thought so. but now, as he surveyed the ragged and dirty coat and the patched pants, dick felt ashamed of them. he was unwilling to appear in the streets with them. yet, if he went to work in his new suit, he was in danger of spoiling it, and he might not have it in his power to purchase a new one. economy dictated a return to the old garments. dick tried them on, and surveyed himself in the cracked glass; but the reflection did not please him. "they don't look 'spectable," he decided; and, forthwith taking them off again, he put on the new suit of the day before. "i must try to earn a little more," he thought, "to pay for my room, and to buy some new clo'es when these is wore out." he opened the door of his chamber, and went downstairs and into the street, carrying his blacking-box with him. it was dick's custom to commence his business before breakfast; generally it must be owned, because he began the day penniless, and must earn his meal before he ate it. to-day it was different. he had four dollars left in his pocket-book; but this he had previously determined not to touch. in fact he had formed the ambitious design of starting an account at a savings' bank, in order to have something to fall back upon in case of sickness or any other emergency, or at any rate as a reserve fund to expend in clothing or other necessary articles when he required them. hitherto he had been content to live on from day to day without a penny ahead; but the new vision of respectability which now floated before dick's mind, owing to his recent acquaintance with frank, was beginning to exercise a powerful effect upon him. in dick's profession as in others there are lucky days, when everything seems to flow prosperously. as if to encourage him in his new-born resolution, our hero obtained no less than six jobs in the course of an hour and a half. this gave him sixty cents, quite abundant to purchase his breakfast, and a comb besides. his exertions made him hungry, and, entering a small eating-house he ordered a cup of coffee and a beefsteak. to this he added a couple of rolls. this was quite a luxurious breakfast for dick, and more expensive than he was accustomed to indulge himself with. to gratify the curiosity of my young readers, i will put down the items with their cost,-- coffee, . . . . . . . . . . . . . cts. beefsteak, . . . . . . . . . . . a couple of rolls, . . . . . . . -- cts. it will thus be seen that our hero had expended nearly one-half of his morning's earnings. some days he had been compelled to breakfast on five cents, and then he was forced to content himself with a couple of apples, or cakes. but a good breakfast is a good preparation for a busy day, and dick sallied forth from the restaurant lively and alert, ready to do a good stroke of business. dick's change of costume was liable to lead to one result of which he had not thought. his brother boot-blacks might think he had grown aristocratic, and was putting on airs,--that, in fact, he was getting above his business, and desirous to outshine his associates. dick had not dreamed of this, because in fact, in spite of his new-born ambition, he entertained no such feeling. there was nothing of what boys call "big-feeling" about him. he was a borough democrat, using the word not politically, but in its proper sense, and was disposed to fraternize with all whom he styled "good fellows," without regard to their position. it may seem a little unnecessary to some of my readers to make this explanation; but they must remember that pride and "big-feeling" are confined to no age or class, but may be found in boys as well as men, and in boot-blacks as well as those of a higher rank. the morning being a busy time with the boot-blacks, dick's changed appearance had not as yet attracted much attention. but when business slackened a little, our hero was destined to be reminded of it. among the down-town boot-blacks was one hailing from the five points,--a stout, red-haired, freckled-faced boy of fourteen, bearing the name of micky maguire. this boy, by his boldness and recklessness, as well as by his personal strength, which was considerable, had acquired an ascendancy among his fellow professionals, and had a gang of subservient followers, whom he led on to acts of ruffianism, not unfrequently terminating in a month or two at blackwell's island. micky himself had served two terms there; but the confinement appeared to have had very little effect in amending his conduct, except, perhaps, in making him a little more cautious about an encounter with the "copps," as the members of the city police are, for some unknown reason, styled among the five-point boys. now micky was proud of his strength, and of the position of leader which it had secured him. moreover he was democratic in his tastes, and had a jealous hatred of those who wore good clothes and kept their faces clean. he called it putting on airs, and resented the implied superiority. if he had been fifteen years older, and had a trifle more education, he would have interested himself in politics, and been prominent at ward meetings, and a terror to respectable voters on election day. as it was, he contented himself with being the leader of a gang of young ruffians, over whom he wielded a despotic power. now it is only justice to dick to say that, so far as wearing good clothes was concerned, he had never hitherto offended the eyes of micky maguire. indeed, they generally looked as if they patronized the same clothing establishment. on this particular morning it chanced that micky had not been very fortunate in a business way, and, as a natural consequence, his temper, never very amiable, was somewhat ruffled by the fact. he had had a very frugal breakfast,--not because he felt abstemious, but owing to the low state of his finances. he was walking along with one of his particular friends, a boy nicknamed limpy jim, so called from a slight peculiarity in his walk, when all at once he espied our friend dick in his new suit. "my eyes!" he exclaimed, in astonishment; "jim, just look at ragged dick. he's come into a fortun', and turned gentleman. see his new clothes." "so he has," said jim. "where'd he get 'em, i wonder?" "hooked 'em, p'raps. let's go and stir him up a little. we don't want no gentlemen on our beat. so he's puttin' on airs,--is he? i'll give him a lesson." so saying the two boys walked up to our hero, who had not observed them, his back being turned, and micky maguire gave him a smart slap on the shoulder. dick turned round quickly. chapter xiv a battle and a victory "what's that for?" demanded dick, turning round to see who had struck him. "you're gettin' mighty fine!" said micky maguire, surveying dick's new clothes with a scornful air. there was something in his words and tone, which dick, who was disposed to stand up for his dignity, did not at all relish. "well, what's the odds if i am?" he retorted. "does it hurt you any?" "see him put on airs, jim," said micky, turning to his companion. "where'd you get them clo'es?" "never mind where i got 'em. maybe the prince of wales gave 'em to me." "hear him, now, jim," said micky. "most likely he stole 'em." "stealin' aint in _my_ line." it might have been unconscious the emphasis which dick placed on the word "my." at any rate micky chose to take offence. "do you mean to say _i_ steal?" he demanded, doubling up his fist, and advancing towards dick in a threatening manner. "i don't say anything about it," answered dick, by no means alarmed at this hostile demonstration. "i know you've been to the island twice. p'r'aps 'twas to make a visit along of the mayor and aldermen. maybe you was a innocent victim of oppression. i aint a goin' to say." micky's freckled face grew red with wrath, for dick had only stated the truth. "do you mean to insult me?" he demanded shaking the fist already doubled up in dick's face. "maybe you want a lickin'?" "i aint partic'larly anxious to get one," said dick, coolly. "they don't agree with my constitution which is nat'rally delicate. i'd rather have a good dinner than a lickin' any time." "you're afraid," sneered micky. "isn't he, jim?" "in course he is." "p'r'aps i am," said dick, composedly, "but it don't trouble me much." "do you want to fight?" demanded micky, encouraged by dick's quietness, fancying he was afraid to encounter him. "no, i don't," said dick. "i aint fond of fightin'. it's a very poor amusement, and very bad for the complexion, 'specially for the eyes and nose, which is apt to turn red, white, and blue." micky misunderstood dick, and judged from the tenor of his speech that he would be an easy victim. as he knew, dick very seldom was concerned in any street fight,--not from cowardice, as he imagined, but because he had too much good sense to do so. being quarrelsome, like all bullies, and supposing that he was more than a match for our hero, being about two inches taller, he could no longer resist an inclination to assault him, and tried to plant a blow in dick's face which would have hurt him considerably if he had not drawn back just in time. now, though dick was far from quarrelsome, he was ready to defend himself on all occasions, and it was too much to expect that he would stand quiet and allow himself to be beaten. he dropped his blacking-box on the instant, and returned micky's blow with such good effect that the young bully staggered back, and would have fallen, if he had not been propped up by his confederate, limpy jim. "go in, micky!" shouted the latter, who was rather a coward on his own account, but liked to see others fight. "polish him off, that's a good feller." micky was now boiling over with rage and fury, and required no urging. he was fully determined to make a terrible example of poor dick. he threw himself upon him, and strove to bear him to the ground; but dick, avoiding a close hug, in which he might possibly have got the worst of it, by an adroit movement, tripped up his antagonist, and stretched him on the side walk. "hit him, jim!" exclaimed micky, furiously. limpy jim did not seem inclined to obey orders. there was a quiet strength and coolness about dick, which alarmed him. he preferred that micky should incur all the risks of battle, and accordingly set himself to raising his fallen comrade. "come, micky," said dick, quietly, "you'd better give it up. i wouldn't have touched you if you hadn't hit me first. i don't want to fight. it's low business." "you're afraid of hurtin' your clo'es," said micky, with a sneer. "maybe i am," said dick. "i hope i haven't hurt yours." micky's answer to this was another attack, as violent and impetuous as the first. but his fury was in the way. he struck wildly, not measuring his blows, and dick had no difficulty in turning aside, so that his antagonist's blow fell upon the empty air, and his momentum was such that he nearly fell forward headlong. dick might readily have taken advantage of his unsteadiness, and knocked him down; but he was not vindictive, and chose to act on the defensive, except when he could not avoid it. recovering himself, micky saw that dick was a more formidable antagonist than he had supposed, and was meditating another assault, better planned, which by its impetuosity might bear our hero to the ground. but there was an unlooked-for interference. "look out for the 'copp,'" said jim, in a low voice. micky turned round and saw a tall policeman heading towards him, and thought it might be prudent to suspend hostilities. he accordingly picked up his black-box, and, hitching up his pants, walked off, attended by limpy jim. "what's that chap been doing?" asked the policeman of dick. "he was amoosin' himself by pitchin' into me," replied dick. "what for?" "he didn't like it 'cause i patronized a different tailor from him." "well, it seems to me you _are_ dressed pretty smart for a boot-black," said the policeman. "i wish i wasn't a boot-black," said dick. "never mind, my lad. it's an honest business," said the policeman, who was a sensible man and a worthy citizen. "it's an honest business. stick to it till you get something better." "i mean to," said dick. "it aint easy to get out of it, as the prisoner remarked, when he was asked how he liked his residence." "i hope you don't speak from experience." "no," said dick; "i don't mean to get into prison if i can help it." "do you see that gentleman over there?" asked the officer, pointing to a well-dressed man who was walking on the other side of the street. "yes." "well, he was once a newsboy." "and what is he now?" "he keeps a bookstore, and is quite prosperous." dick looked at the gentleman with interest, wondering if he should look as respectable when he was a grown man. it will be seen that dick was getting ambitious. hitherto he had thought very little of the future, but was content to get along as he could, dining as well as his means would allow, and spending the evenings in the pit of the old bowery, eating peanuts between the acts if he was prosperous, and if unlucky supping on dry bread or an apple, and sleeping in an old box or a wagon. now, for the first time, he began to reflect that he could not black boots all his life. in seven years he would be a man, and, since his meeting with frank, he felt that he would like to be a respectable man. he could see and appreciate the difference between frank and such a boy as micky maguire, and it was not strange that he preferred the society of the former. in the course of the next morning, in pursuance of his new resolutions for the future, he called at a savings bank, and held out four dollars in bills besides another dollar in change. there was a high railing, and a number of clerks busily writing at desks behind it. dick, never having been in a bank before, did not know where to go. he went, by mistake, to the desk where money was paid out. "where's your book?" asked the clerk. "i haven't got any." "have you any money deposited here?" "no, sir, i want to leave some here." "then go to the next desk." dick followed directions, and presented himself before an elderly man with gray hair, who looked at him over the rims of his spectacles. "i want you to keep that for me," said dick, awkwardly emptying his money out on the desk. "how much is there?" "five dollars." "have you got an account here?" "no, sir." "of course you can write?" the "of course" was said on account of dick's neat dress. "have i got to do any writing?" asked our hero, a little embarrassed. "we want you to sign your name in this book," and the old gentleman shoved round a large folio volume containing the names of depositors. dick surveyed the book with some awe. "i aint much on writin'," he said. "very well; write as well as you can." the pen was put into dick's hand, and, after dipping it in the inkstand, he succeeded after a hard effort, accompanied by many contortions of the face, in inscribing upon the book of the bank the name dick hunter. "dick!--that means richard, i suppose," said the bank officer, who had some difficulty in making out the signature. "no; ragged dick is what folks call me." "you don't look very ragged." "no, i've left my rags to home. they might get wore out if i used 'em too common." "well, my lad, i'll make out a book in the name of dick hunter, since you seem to prefer dick to richard. i hope you will save up your money and deposit more with us." our hero took his bank-book, and gazed on the entry "five dollars" with a new sense of importance. he had been accustomed to joke about erie shares, but now, for the first time, he felt himself a capitalist; on a small scale, to be sure, but still it was no small thing for dick to have five dollars which he could call his own. he firmly determined that he would lay by every cent he could spare from his earnings towards the fund he hoped to accumulate. but dick was too sensible not to know that there was something more than money needed to win a respectable position in the world. he felt that he was very ignorant. of reading and writing he only knew the rudiments, and that, with a slight acquaintance with arithmetic, was all he did know of books. dick knew he must study hard, and he dreaded it. he looked upon learning as attended with greater difficulties than it really possesses. but dick had good pluck. he meant to learn, nevertheless, and resolved to buy a book with his first spare earnings. when dick went home at night he locked up his bank-book in one of the drawers of the bureau. it was wonderful how much more independent he felt whenever he reflected upon the contents of that drawer, and with what an important air of joint ownership he regarded the bank building in which his small savings were deposited. chapter xv dick secures a tutor the next morning dick was unusually successful, having plenty to do, and receiving for one job twenty-five cents,--the gentleman refusing to take change. then flashed upon dick's mind the thought that he had not yet returned the change due to the gentleman whose boots he had blacked on the morning of his introduction to the reader. "what'll he think of me?" said dick to himself. "i hope he won't think i'm mean enough to keep the money." now dick was scrupulously honest, and though the temptation to be otherwise had often been strong, he had always resisted it. he was not willing on any account to keep money which did not belong to him, and he immediately started for fulton street (the address which had been given him) where he found mr. greyson's name on the door of an office on the first floor. the door being open, dick walked in. "is mr. greyson in?" he asked of a clerk who sat on a high stool before a desk. "not just now. he'll be in soon. will you wait?" "yes," said dick. "very well; take a seat then." dick sat down and took up the morning "tribune," but presently came to a word of four syllables, which he pronounced to himself a "sticker," and laid it down. but he had not long to wait, for five minutes later mr. greyson entered. "did you wish to speak to me, my lad?" said he to dick, whom in his new clothes he did not recognize. "yes, sir," said dick. "i owe you some money." "indeed!" said mr. greyson, pleasantly; "that's an agreeable surprise. i didn't know but you had come for some. so you are a debtor of mine, and not a creditor?" "i b'lieve that's right," said dick, drawing fifteen cents from his pocket, and placing in mr. greyson's hand. "fifteen cents!" repeated he, in some surprise. "how do you happen to be indebted to me in that amount?" "you gave me a quarter for a-shinin' your boots, yesterday mornin', and couldn't wait for the change. i meant to have brought it before, but i forgot all about it till this mornin'." "it had quite slipped my mind also. but you don't look like the boy i employed. if i remember rightly he wasn't as well dressed as you." "no," said dick. "i was dressed for a party, then, but the clo'es was too well ventilated to be comfortable in cold weather." "you're an honest boy," said mr. greyson. "who taught you to be honest?" "nobody," said dick. "but it's mean to cheat and steal. i've always knowed that." "then you've got ahead of some of our business men. do you read the bible?" "no," said dick. "i've heard it's a good book, but i don't know much about it." "you ought to go to some sunday school. would you be willing?" "yes," said dick, promptly. "i want to grow up 'spectable. but i don't know where to go." "then i'll tell you. the church i attend is at the corner of fifth avenue and twenty-first street." "i've seen it," said dick. "i have a class in the sunday school there. if you'll come next sunday, i'll take you into my class, and do what i can to help you." "thank you," said dick, "but p'r'aps you'll get tired of teaching me. i'm awful ignorant." "no, my lad," said mr. greyson, kindly. "you evidently have some good principles to start with, as you have shown by your scorn of dishonesty. i shall hope good things of you in the future." "well, dick," said our hero, apostrophizing himself, as he left the office; "you're gettin' up in the world. you've got money invested, and are goin' to attend church, by partic'lar invitation, on fifth avenue. i shouldn't wonder much if you should find cards, when you get home, from the mayor, requestin' the honor of your company to dinner, along with other distinguished guests." dick felt in very good spirits. he seemed to be emerging from the world in which he had hitherto lived, into a new atmosphere of respectability, and the change seemed very pleasant to him. at six o'clock dick went into a restaurant on chatham street, and got a comfortable supper. he had been so successful during the day that, after paying for this, he still had ninety cents left. while he was despatching his supper, another boy came in, smaller and slighter than dick, and sat down beside him. dick recognized him as a boy who three months before had entered the ranks of the boot-blacks, but who, from a natural timidity, had not been able to earn much. he was ill-fitted for the coarse companionship of the street boys, and shrank from the rude jokes of his present associates. dick had never troubled him; for our hero had a certain chivalrous feeling which would not allow him to bully or disturb a younger and weaker boy than himself. "how are you, fosdick?" said dick, as the other seated himself. "pretty well," said fosdick. "i suppose you're all right." "oh, yes, i'm right side up with care. i've been havin' a bully supper. what are you goin' to have?" "some bread and butter." "why don't you get a cup o' coffee?" "why," said fosdick, reluctantly, "i haven't got money enough to-night." "never mind," said dick; "i'm in luck to-day, i'll stand treat." "that's kind in you," said fosdick, gratefully. "oh, never mind that," said dick. accordingly he ordered a cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak, and was gratified to see that his young companion partook of both with evident relish. when the repast was over, the boys went out into the street together, dick pausing at the desk to settle for both suppers. "where are you going to sleep to-night, fosdick?" asked dick, as they stood on the sidewalk. "i don't know," said fosdick, a little sadly. "in some doorway, i expect. but i'm afraid the police will find me out, and make me move on." "i'll tell you what," said dick, "you must go home with me. i guess my bed will hold two." "have you got a room?" asked the other, in surprise. "yes," said dick, rather proudly, and with a little excusable exultation. "i've got a room over in mott street; there i can receive my friends. that'll be better than sleepin' in a door-way,--won't it?" "yes, indeed it will," said fosdick. "how lucky i was to come across you! it comes hard to me living as i do. when my father was alive i had every comfort." "that's more'n i ever had," said dick. "but i'm goin' to try to live comfortable now. is your father dead?" "yes," said fosdick, sadly. "he was a printer; but he was drowned one dark night from a fulton ferry-boat, and, as i had no relations in the city, and no money, i was obliged to go to work as quick as i could. but i don't get on very well." "didn't you have no brothers nor sisters?" asked dick. "no," said fosdick; "father and i used to live alone. he was always so much company to me that i feel very lonesome without him. there's a man out west somewhere that owes him two thousand dollars. he used to live in the city, and father lent him all his money to help him go into business; but he failed, or pretended to, and went off. if father hadn't lost that money he would have left me well off; but no money would have made up his loss to me." "what's the man's name that went off with your father's money?" "his name is hiram bates." "p'r'aps you'll get the money again, sometime." "there isn't much chance of it," said fosdick. "i'd sell out my chances of that for five dollars." "maybe i'll buy you out sometime," said dick. "now, come round and see what sort of a room i've got. i used to go to the theatre evenings, when i had money; but now i'd rather go to bed early, and have a good sleep." "i don't care much about theatres," said fosdick. "father didn't use to let me go very often. he said it wasn't good for boys." "i like to go to the old bowery sometimes. they have tip-top plays there. can you read and write well?" he asked, as a sudden thought came to him. "yes," said fosdick. "father always kept me at school when he was alive, and i stood pretty well in my classes. i was expecting to enter at the free academy* next year." * now the college of the city of new york. "then i'll tell you what," said dick; "i'll make a bargain with you. i can't read much more'n a pig; and my writin' looks like hens' tracks. i don't want to grow up knowin' no more'n a four-year-old boy. if you'll teach me readin' and writin' evenin's, you shall sleep in my room every night. that'll be better'n door-steps or old boxes, where i've slept many a time." "are you in earnest?" said fosdick, his face lighting up hopefully. "in course i am," said dick. "it's fashionable for young gentlemen to have private tootors to introduct 'em into the flower-beds of literatoor and science, and why shouldn't i foller the fashion? you shall be my perfessor; only you must promise not to be very hard if my writin' looks like a rail-fence on a bender." "i'll try not to be too severe," said fosdick, laughing. "i shall be thankful for such a chance to get a place to sleep. have you got anything to read out of?" "no," said dick. "my extensive and well-selected library was lost overboard in a storm, when i was sailin' from the sandwich islands to the desert of sahara. but i'll buy a paper. that'll do me a long time." accordingly dick stopped at a paper-stand, and bought a copy of a weekly paper, filled with the usual variety of reading matter,--stories, sketches, poems, etc. they soon arrived at dick's lodging-house. our hero, procuring a lamp from the landlady, led the way into his apartment, which he entered with the proud air of a proprietor. "well, how do you like it, fosdick?" he asked, complacently. the time was when fosdick would have thought it untidy and not particularly attractive. but he had served a severe apprenticeship in the streets, and it was pleasant to feel himself under shelter, and he was not disposed to be critical. "it looks very comfortable, dick," he said. "the bed aint very large," said dick; "but i guess we can get along." "oh, yes," said fosdick, cheerfully. "i don't take up much room." "then that's all right. there's two chairs, you see, one for you and one for me. in case the mayor comes in to spend the evenin' socially, he can sit on the bed." the boys seated themselves, and five minutes later, under the guidance of his young tutor, dick had commenced his studies. chapter xvi the first lesson fortunately for dick, his young tutor was well qualified to instruct him. henry fosdick, though only twelve years old, knew as much as many boys of fourteen. he had always been studious and ambitious to excel. his father, being a printer, employed in an office where books were printed, often brought home new books in sheets, which henry was always glad to read. mr. fosdick had been, besides, a subscriber to the mechanics' apprentices' library, which contains many thousands of well-selected and instructive books. thus henry had acquired an amount of general information, unusual in a boy of his age. perhaps he had devoted too much time to study, for he was not naturally robust. all this, however, fitted him admirably for the office to which dick had appointed him,--that of his private instructor. the two boys drew up their chairs to the rickety table, and spread out the paper before them. "the exercises generally commence with ringin' the bell," said dick; "but as i aint got none, we'll have to do without." "and the teacher is generally provided with a rod," said fosdick. "isn't there a poker handy, that i can use in case my scholar doesn't behave well?" "'taint lawful to use fire-arms," said dick. "now, dick," said fosdick, "before we begin, i must find out how much you already know. can you read any?" "not enough to hurt me," said dick. "all i know about readin' you could put in a nutshell, and there'd be room left for a small family." "i suppose you know your letters?" "yes," said dick, "i know 'em all, but not intimately. i guess i can call 'em all by name." "where did you learn them? did you ever go to school?" "yes; i went two days." "why did you stop?" "it didn't agree with my constitution." "you don't look very delicate," said fosdick. "no," said dick, "i aint troubled much that way; but i found lickins didn't agree with me." "did you get punished?" "awful," said dick. "what for?" "for indulgin' in a little harmless amoosement," said dick. "you see the boy that was sittin' next to me fell asleep, which i considered improper in school-time; so i thought i'd help the teacher a little by wakin' him up. so i took a pin and stuck into him; but i guess it went a little too far, for he screeched awful. the teacher found out what it was that made him holler, and whipped me with a ruler till i was black and blue. i thought 'twas about time to take a vacation; so that's the last time i went to school." "you didn't learn to read in that time, of course?" "no," said dick; "but i was a newsboy a little while; so i learned a little, just so's to find out what the news was. sometimes i didn't read straight and called the wrong news. one mornin' i asked another boy what the paper said, and he told me the king of africa was dead. i thought it was all right till folks began to laugh." "well, dick, if you'll only study well, you won't be liable to make such mistakes." "i hope so," said dick. "my friend horace greeley told me the other day that he'd get me to take his place now and then when he was off makin' speeches if my edication hadn't been neglected." "i must find a good piece for you to begin on," said fosdick, looking over the paper. "find an easy one," said dick, "with words of one story." fosdick at length found a piece which he thought would answer. he discovered on trial that dick had not exaggerated his deficiencies. words of two syllables he seldom pronounced right, and was much surprised when he was told how "through" was sounded. "seems to me it's throwin' away letters to use all them," he said. "how would you spell it?" asked his young teacher. "t-h-r-u," said dick. "well," said fosdick, "there's a good many other words that are spelt with more letters than they need to have. but it's the fashion, and we must follow it." but if dick was ignorant, he was quick, and had an excellent capacity. moreover he had perseverance, and was not easily discouraged. he had made up his mind he must know more, and was not disposed to complain of the difficulty of his task. fosdick had occasion to laugh more than once at his ludicrous mistakes; but dick laughed too, and on the whole both were quite interested in the lesson. at the end of an hour and a half the boys stopped for the evening. "you're learning fast, dick," said fosdick. "at this rate you will soon learn to read well." "will i?" asked dick with an expression of satisfaction. "i'm glad of that. i don't want to be ignorant. i didn't use to care, but i do now. i want to grow up 'spectable." "so do i, dick. we will both help each other, and i am sure we can accomplish something. but i am beginning to feel sleepy." "so am i," said dick. "them hard words make my head ache. i wonder who made 'em all?" "that's more than i can tell. i suppose you've seen a dictionary." "that's another of 'em. no, i can't say i have, though i may have seen him in the street without knowin' him." "a dictionary is a book containing all the words in the language." "how many are there?" "i don't rightly know; but i think there are about fifty thousand." "it's a pretty large family," said dick. "have i got to learn 'em all?" "that will not be necessary. there are a large number which you would never find occasion to use." "i'm glad of that," said dick; "for i don't expect to live to be more'n a hundred, and by that time i wouldn't be more'n half through." by this time the flickering lamp gave a decided hint to the boys that unless they made haste they would have to undress in the dark. they accordingly drew off their clothes, and dick jumped into bed. but fosdick, before doing so, knelt down by the side of the bed, and said a short prayer. "what's that for?" asked dick, curiously. "i was saying my prayers," said fosdick, as he rose from his knees. "don't you ever do it?" "no," said dick. "nobody ever taught me." "then i'll teach you. shall i?" "i don't know," said dick, dubiously. "what's the good?" fosdick explained as well as he could, and perhaps his simple explanation was better adapted to dick's comprehension than one from an older person would have been. dick felt more free to ask questions, and the example of his new friend, for whom he was beginning to feel a warm attachment, had considerable effect upon him. when, therefore, fosdick asked again if he should teach him a prayer, dick consented, and his young bedfellow did so. dick was not naturally irreligious. if he had lived without a knowledge of god and of religious things, it was scarcely to be wondered at in a lad who, from an early age, had been thrown upon his own exertions for the means of living, with no one to care for him or give him good advice. but he was so far good that he could appreciate goodness in others, and this it was that had drawn him to frank in the first place, and now to henry fosdick. he did not, therefore, attempt to ridicule his companion, as some boys better brought up might have done, but was willing to follow his example in what something told him was right. our young hero had taken an important step toward securing that genuine respectability which he was ambitious to attain. weary with the day's work, and dick perhaps still more fatigued by the unusual mental effort he had made, the boys soon sank into a deep and peaceful slumber, from which they did not awaken till six o'clock the next morning. before going out dick sought mrs. mooney, and spoke to her on the subject of taking fosdick as a room-mate. he found that she had no objection, provided he would allow her twenty-five cents a week extra, in consideration of the extra trouble which his companion might be expected to make. to this dick assented, and the arrangement was definitely concluded. this over, the two boys went out and took stations near each other. dick had more of a business turn than henry, and less shrinking from publicity, so that his earnings were greater. but he had undertaken to pay the entire expenses of the room, and needed to earn more. sometimes, when two customers presented themselves at the same time, he was able to direct one to his friend. so at the end of the week both boys found themselves with surplus earnings. dick had the satisfaction of adding two dollars and a half to his deposits in the savings bank, and fosdick commenced an account by depositing seventy-five cents. on sunday morning dick bethought himself of his promise to mr. greyson to come to the church on fifth avenue. to tell the truth, dick recalled it with some regret. he had never been inside a church since he could remember, and he was not much attracted by the invitation he had received. but henry, finding him wavering, urged him to go, and offered to go with him. dick gladly accepted the offer, feeling that he required someone to lend him countenance under such unusual circumstances. dick dressed himself with scrupulous care, giving his shoes a "shine" so brilliant that it did him great credit in a professional point of view, and endeavored to clean his hands thoroughly; but, in spite of all he could do, they were not so white as if his business had been of a different character. having fully completed his preparations, he descended into the street, and, with henry by his side, crossed over to broadway. the boys pursued their way up broadway, which on sunday presents a striking contrast in its quietness to the noise and confusion of ordinary week-days, as far as union square, then turned down fourteenth street, which brought them to fifth avenue. "suppose we dine at delmonico's," said fosdick, looking towards that famous restaurant. "i'd have to sell some of my erie shares," said dick. a short walk now brought them to the church of which mention has already been made. they stood outside, a little abashed, watching the fashionably attired people who were entering, and were feeling a little undecided as to whether they had better enter also, when dick felt a light touch upon his shoulder. turning round, he met the smiling glance of mr. greyson. "so, my young friend, you have kept your promise," he said. "and whom have you brought with you?" "a friend of mine," said dick. "his name is henry fosdick." "i am glad you have brought him. now follow me, and i will give you seats." chapter xvii dick's first appearance in society it was the hour for morning service. the boys followed mr. greyson into the handsome church, and were assigned seats in his own pew. there were two persons already seated in it,--a good-looking lady of middle age, and a pretty little girl of nine. they were mrs. greyson and her only daughter ida. they looked pleasantly at the boys as they entered, smiling a welcome to them. the morning service commenced. it must be acknowledged that dick felt rather awkward. it was an unusual place for him, and it need not be wondered at that he felt like a cat in a strange garret. he would not have known when to rise if he had not taken notice of what the rest of the audience did, and followed their example. he was sitting next to ida, and as it was the first time he had ever been near so well-dressed a young lady, he naturally felt bashful. when the hymns were announced, ida found the place, and offered a hymn-book to our hero. dick took it awkwardly, but his studies had not yet been pursued far enough for him to read the words readily. however, he resolved to keep up appearances, and kept his eyes fixed steadily on the hymn-book. at length the service was over. the people began to file slowly out of church, and among them, of course, mr. greyson's family and the two boys. it seemed very strange to dick to find himself in such different companionship from what he had been accustomed, and he could not help thinking, "wonder what johnny nolan 'ould say if he could see me now!" but johnny's business engagements did not often summon him to fifth avenue, and dick was not likely to be seen by any of his friends in the lower part of the city. "we have our sunday school in the afternoon," said mr. greyson. "i suppose you live at some distance from here?" "in mott street, sir," answered dick. "that is too far to go and return. suppose you and your friend come and dine with us, and then we can come here together in the afternoon." dick was as much astonished at this invitation as if he had really been invited by the mayor to dine with him and the board of aldermen. mr. greyson was evidently a rich man, and yet he had actually invited two boot-blacks to dine with him. "i guess we'd better go home, sir," said dick, hesitating. "i don't think you can have any very pressing engagements to interfere with your accepting my invitation," said mr. greyson, good-humoredly, for he understood the reason of dick's hesitation. "so i take it for granted that you both accept." before dick fairly knew what he intended to do, he was walking down fifth avenue with his new friends. now, our young hero was not naturally bashful; but he certainly felt so now, especially as miss ida greyson chose to walk by his side, leaving henry fosdick to walk with her father and mother. "what is your name?" asked ida, pleasantly. our hero was about to answer "ragged dick," when it occurred to him that in the present company he had better forget his old nickname. "dick hunter," he answered. "dick!" repeated ida. "that means richard, doesn't it?" "everybody calls me dick." "i have a cousin dick," said the young lady, sociably. "his name is dick wilson. i suppose you don't know him?" "no," said dick. "i like the name of dick," said the young lady, with charming frankness. without being able to tell why, dick felt rather glad she did. he plucked up courage to ask her name. "my name is ida," answered the young lady. "do you like it?" "yes," said dick. "it's a bully name." dick turned red as soon as he had said it, for he felt that he had not used the right expression. the little girl broke into a silvery laugh. "what a funny boy you are!" she said. "i didn't mean it," said dick, stammering. "i meant it's a tip-top name." here ida laughed again, and dick wished himself back in mott street. "how old are you?" inquired ida, continuing her examination. "i'm fourteen,--goin' on fifteen," said dick. "you're a big boy of your age," said ida. "my cousin dick is a year older than you, but he isn't as large." dick looked pleased. boys generally like to be told that they are large of their age. "how old be you?" asked dick, beginning to feel more at his ease. "i'm nine years old," said ida. "i go to miss jarvis's school. i've just begun to learn french. do you know french?" "not enough to hurt me," said dick. ida laughed again, and told him that he was a droll boy. "do you like it?" asked dick. "i like it pretty well, except the verbs. i can't remember them well. do you go to school?" "i'm studying with a private tutor," said dick. "are you? so is my cousin dick. he's going to college this year. are you going to college?" "not this year." "because, if you did, you know you'd be in the same class with my cousin. it would be funny to have two dicks in one class." they turned down twenty-fourth street, passing the fifth avenue hotel on the left, and stopped before an elegant house with a brown stone front. the bell was rung, and the door being opened, the boys, somewhat abashed, followed mr. greyson into a handsome hall. they were told where to hang their hats, and a moment afterwards were ushered into a comfortable dining-room, where a table was spread for dinner. dick took his seat on the edge of a sofa, and was tempted to rub his eyes to make sure that he was really awake. he could hardly believe that he was a guest in so fine a mansion. ida helped to put the boys at their ease. "do you like pictures?" she asked. "very much," answered henry. the little girl brought a book of handsome engravings, and, seating herself beside dick, to whom she seemed to have taken a decided fancy, commenced showing them to him. "there are the pyramids of egypt," she said, pointing to one engraving. "what are they for?" asked dick, puzzled. "i don't see any winders." "no," said ida, "i don't believe anybody lives there. do they, papa?" "no, my dear. they were used for the burial of the dead. the largest of them is said to be the loftiest building in the world with one exception. the spire of the cathedral of strasburg is twenty-four feet higher, if i remember rightly." "is egypt near here?" asked dick. "oh, no, it's ever so many miles off; about four or five hundred. didn't you know?" "no," said dick. "i never heard." "you don't appear to be very accurate in your information, ida," said her mother. "four or five thousand miles would be considerably nearer the truth." after a little more conversation they sat down to dinner. dick seated himself in an embarrassed way. he was very much afraid of doing or saying something which would be considered an impropriety, and had the uncomfortable feeling that everybody was looking at him, and watching his behavior. "where do you live, dick?" asked ida, familiarly. "in mott street." "where is that?" "more than a mile off." "is it a nice street?" "not very," said dick. "only poor folks live there." "are you poor?" "little girls should be seen and not heard," said her mother, gently. "if you are," said ida, "i'll give you the five-dollar gold-piece aunt gave me for a birthday present." "dick cannot be called poor, my child," said mrs. greyson, "since he earns his living by his own exertions." "do you earn your living?" asked ida, who was a very inquisitive young lady, and not easily silenced. "what do you do?" dick blushed violently. at such a table, and in presence of the servant who was standing at that moment behind his chair, he did not like to say that he was a shoe-black, although he well knew that there was nothing dishonorable in the occupation. mr. greyson perceived his feelings, and to spare them, said, "you are too inquisitive, ida. sometime dick may tell you, but you know we don't talk of business on sundays." dick in his embarrassment had swallowed a large spoonful of hot soup, which made him turn red in the face. for the second time, in spite of the prospect of the best dinner he had ever eaten, he wished himself back in mott street. henry fosdick was more easy and unembarrassed than dick, not having led such a vagabond and neglected life. but it was to dick that ida chiefly directed her conversation, having apparently taken a fancy to his frank and handsome face. i believe i have already said that dick was a very good-looking boy, especially now since he kept his face clean. he had a frank, honest expression, which generally won its way to the favor of those with whom he came in contact. dick got along pretty well at the table by dint of noticing how the rest acted, but there was one thing he could not manage, eating with his fork, which, by the way, he thought a very singular arrangement. at length they arose from the table, somewhat to dick's relief. again ida devoted herself to the boys, and exhibited a profusely illustrated bible for their entertainment. dick was interested in looking at the pictures, though he knew very little of their subjects. henry fosdick was much better informed, as might have been expected. when the boys were about to leave the house with mr. greyson for the sunday school, ida placed her hand in dick's, and said persuasively, "you'll come again, dick, won't you?" "thank you," said dick, "i'd like to," and he could not help thinking ida the nicest girl he had ever seen. "yes," said mrs. greyson, hospitably, "we shall be glad to see you both here again." "thank you very much," said henry fosdick, gratefully. "we shall like very much to come." i will not dwell upon the hour spent in sunday school, nor upon the remarks of mr. greyson to his class. he found dick's ignorance of religious subjects so great that he was obliged to begin at the beginning with him. dick was interested in hearing the children sing, and readily promised to come again the next sunday. when the service was over dick and henry walked homewards. dick could not help letting his thoughts rest on the sweet little girl who had given him so cordial a welcome, and hoping that he might meet her again. "mr. greyson is a nice man,--isn't he, dick?" asked henry, as they were turning into mott street, and were already in sight of their lodging-house. "aint he, though?" said dick. "he treated us just as if we were young gentlemen." "ida seemed to take a great fancy to you." "she's a tip-top girl," said dick, "but she asked so many questions that i didn't know what to say." he had scarcely finished speaking, when a stone whizzed by his head, and, turning quickly, he saw micky maguire running round the corner of the street which they had just passed. chapter xviii micky maguire's second defeat dick was no coward. nor was he in the habit of submitting passively to an insult. when, therefore, he recognized micky as his assailant, he instantly turned and gave chase. micky anticipated pursuit, and ran at his utmost speed. it is doubtful if dick would have overtaken him, but micky had the ill luck to trip just as he had entered a narrow alley, and, falling with some violence, received a sharp blow from the hard stones, which made him scream with pain. "ow!" he whined. "don't you hit a feller when he's down." "what made you fire that stone at me?" demanded our hero, looking down at the fallen bully. "just for fun," said micky. "it would have been a very agreeable s'prise if it had hit me," said dick. "s'posin' i fire a rock at you jest for fun." "don't!" exclaimed micky, in alarm. "it seems you don't like agreeable s'prises," said dick, "any more'n the man did what got hooked by a cow one mornin', before breakfast. it didn't improve his appetite much." "i've most broke my arm," said micky, ruefully, rubbing the affected limb. "if it's broke you can't fire no more stones, which is a very cheerin' reflection," said dick. "ef you haven't money enough to buy a wooden one i'll lend you a quarter. there's one good thing about wooden ones, they aint liable to get cold in winter, which is another cheerin' reflection." "i don't want none of yer cheerin' reflections," said micky, sullenly. "yer company aint wanted here." "thank you for your polite invitation to leave," said dick, bowing ceremoniously. "i'm willin' to go, but ef you throw any more stones at me, micky maguire, i'll hurt you worse than the stones did." the only answer made to this warning was a scowl from his fallen opponent. it was quite evident that dick had the best of it, and he thought it prudent to say nothing. "as i've got a friend waitin' outside, i shall have to tear myself away," said dick. "you'd better not throw any more stones, micky maguire, for it don't seem to agree with your constitution." micky muttered something which dick did not stay to hear. he backed out of the alley, keeping a watchful eye on his fallen foe, and rejoined henry fosdick, who was awaiting his return. "who was it, dick?" he asked. "a partic'lar friend of mine, micky maguire," said dick. "he playfully fired a rock at my head as a mark of his 'fection. he loves me like a brother, micky does." "rather a dangerous kind of a friend, i should think," said fosdick. "he might have killed you." "i've warned him not to be so 'fectionate another time," said dick. "i know him," said henry fosdick. "he's at the head of a gang of boys living at the five-points. he threatened to whip me once because a gentleman employed me to black his boots instead of him." "he's been at the island two or three times for stealing," said dick. "i guess he won't touch me again. he'd rather get hold of small boys. if he ever does anything to you, fosdick, just let me know, and i'll give him a thrashing." dick was right. micky maguire was a bully, and like most bullies did not fancy tackling boys whose strength was equal or superior to his own. although he hated dick more than ever, because he thought our hero was putting on airs, he had too lively a remembrance of his strength and courage to venture upon another open attack. he contented himself, therefore, whenever he met dick, with scowling at him. dick took this very philosophically, remarking that, "if it was soothin' to micky's feelings, he might go ahead, as it didn't hurt him much." it will not be necessary to chronicle the events of the next few weeks. a new life had commenced for dick. he no longer haunted the gallery of the old bowery; and even tony pastor's hospitable doors had lost their old attractions. he spent two hours every evening in study. his progress was astonishingly rapid. he was gifted with a natural quickness; and he was stimulated by the desire to acquire a fair education as a means of "growin' up 'spectable," as he termed it. much was due also to the patience and perseverance of henry fosdick, who made a capital teacher. "you're improving wonderfully, dick," said his friend, one evening, when dick had read an entire paragraph without a mistake. "am i?" said dick, with satisfaction. "yes. if you'll buy a writing-book to-morrow, we can begin writing to-morrow evening." "what else do you know, henry?" asked dick. "arithmetic, and geography, and grammar." "what a lot you know!" said dick, admiringly. "i don't _know_ any of them," said fosdick. "i've only studied them. i wish i knew a great deal more." "i'll be satisfied when i know as much as you," said dick. "it seems a great deal to you now, dick, but in a few months you'll think differently. the more you know, the more you'll want to know." "then there aint any end to learnin'?" said dick. "no." "well," said dick, "i guess i'll be as much as sixty before i know everything." "yes; as old as that, probably," said fosdick, laughing. "anyway, you know too much to be blackin' boots. leave that to ignorant chaps like me." "you won't be ignorant long, dick." "you'd ought to get into some office or countin'-room." "i wish i could," said fosdick, earnestly. "i don't succeed very well at blacking boots. you make a great deal more than i do." "that's cause i aint troubled with bashfulness," said dick. "bashfulness aint as natural to me as it is to you. i'm always on hand, as the cat said to the milk. you'd better give up shines, fosdick, and give your 'tention to mercantile pursuits." "i've thought of trying to get a place," said fosdick; "but no one would take me with these clothes;" and he directed his glance to his well-worn suit, which he kept as neat as he could, but which, in spite of all his care, began to show decided marks of use. there was also here and there a stain of blacking upon it, which, though an advertisement of his profession, scarcely added to its good appearance. "i almost wanted to stay at home from sunday school last sunday," he continued, "because i thought everybody would notice how dirty and worn my clothes had got to be." "if my clothes wasn't two sizes too big for you," said dick, generously, "i'd change. you'd look as if you'd got into your great-uncle's suit by mistake." "you're very kind, dick, to think of changing," said fosdick, "for your suit is much better than mine; but i don't think that mine would suit you very well. the pants would show a little more of your ankles than is the fashion, and you couldn't eat a very hearty dinner without bursting the buttons off the vest." "that wouldn't be very convenient," said dick. "i aint fond of lacin' to show my elegant figger. but i say," he added with a sudden thought, "how much money have we got in the savings' bank?" fosdick took a key from his pocket, and went to the drawer in which the bank-books were kept, and, opening it, brought them out for inspection. it was found that dick had the sum of eighteen dollars and ninety cents placed to his credit, while fosdick had six dollars and forty-five cents. to explain the large difference, it must be remembered that dick had deposited five dollars before henry deposited anything, being the amount he had received as a gift from mr. whitney. "how much does that make, the lot of it?" asked dick. "i aint much on figgers yet, you know." "it makes twenty-five dollars and thirty-five cents, dick," said his companion, who did not understand the thought which suggested the question. "take it, and buy some clothes, henry," said dick, shortly. "what, your money too?" "in course." "no, dick, you are too generous. i couldn't think of it. almost three-quarters of the money is yours. you must spend it on yourself." "i don't need it," said dick. "you may not need it now, but you will some time." "i shall have some more then." "that may be; but it wouldn't be fair for me to use your money, dick. i thank you all the same for your kindness." "well, i'll lend it to you, then," persisted dick, "and you can pay me when you get to be a rich merchant." "but it isn't likely i ever shall be one." "how d'you know? i went to a fortun' teller once, and she told me i was born under a lucky star with a hard name, and i should have a rich man for my particular friend, who would make my fortun'. i guess you are going to be the rich man." fosdick laughed, and steadily refused for some time to avail himself of dick's generous proposal; but at length, perceiving that our hero seemed much disappointed, and would be really glad if his offer were accepted, he agreed to use as much as might be needful. this at once brought back dick's good-humor, and he entered with great enthusiasm into his friend's plans. the next day they withdrew the money from the bank, and, when business got a little slack, in the afternoon set out in search of a clothing store. dick knew enough of the city to be able to find a place where a good bargain could be obtained. he was determined that fosdick should have a good serviceable suit, even if it took all the money they had. the result of their search was that for twenty-three dollars fosdick obtained a very neat outfit, including a couple of shirts, a hat, and a pair of shoes, besides a dark mixed suit, which appeared stout and of good quality. "shall i send the bundle home?" asked the salesman, impressed by the off-hand manner in which dick drew out the money in payment for the clothes. "thank you," said dick, "you're very kind, but i'll take it home myself, and you can allow me something for my trouble." "all right," said the clerk, laughing; "i'll allow it on your next purchase." proceeding to their apartment in mott street, fosdick at once tried on his new suit, and it was found to be an excellent fit. dick surveyed his new friend with much satisfaction. "you look like a young gentleman of fortun'," he said, "and do credit to your governor." "i suppose that means you, dick," said fosdick, laughing. "in course it does." "you should say _of_ course," said fosdick, who, in virtue of his position as dick's tutor, ventured to correct his language from time to time. "how dare you correct your gov'nor?" said dick, with comic indignation. "'i'll cut you off with a shillin', you young dog,' as the markis says to his nephew in the play at the old bowery." chapter xix fosdick changes his business fosdick did not venture to wear his new clothes while engaged in his business. this he felt would have been wasteful extravagance. about ten o'clock in the morning, when business slackened, he went home, and dressing himself went to a hotel where he could see copies of the "morning herald" and "sun," and, noting down the places where a boy was wanted, went on a round of applications. but he found it no easy thing to obtain a place. swarms of boys seemed to be out of employment, and it was not unusual to find from fifty to a hundred applicants for a single place. there was another difficulty. it was generally desired that the boy wanted should reside with his parents. when fosdick, on being questioned, revealed the fact of his having no parents, and being a boy of the street, this was generally sufficient of itself to insure a refusal. merchants were afraid to trust one who had led such a vagabond life. dick, who was always ready for an emergency, suggested borrowing a white wig, and passing himself off for fosdick's father or grandfather. but henry thought this might be rather a difficult character for our hero to sustain. after fifty applications and as many failures, fosdick began to get discouraged. there seemed to be no way out of his present business, for which he felt unfitted. "i don't know but i shall have to black boots all my life," he said, one day, despondently, to dick. "keep a stiff upper lip," said dick. "by the time you get to be a gray-headed veteran, you may get a chance to run errands for some big firm on the bowery, which is a very cheerin' reflection." so dick by his drollery and perpetual good spirits kept up fosdick's courage. "as for me," said dick, "i expect by that time to lay up a colossal fortun' out of shines, and live in princely style on the avenoo." but one morning, fosdick, straying into french's hotel, discovered the following advertisement in the columns of "the herald,"-- "wanted--a smart, capable boy to run errands, and make himself generally useful in a hat and cap store. salary three dollars a week at first. inquire at no. -- broadway, after ten o'clock, a.m." he determined to make application, and, as the city hall clock just then struck the hour indicated, lost no time in proceeding to the store, which was only a few blocks distant from the astor house. it was easy to find the store, as from a dozen to twenty boys were already assembled in front of it. they surveyed each other askance, feeling that they were rivals, and mentally calculating each other's chances. "there isn't much chance for me," said fosdick to dick, who had accompanied him. "look at all these boys. most of them have good homes, i suppose, and good recommendations, while i have nobody to refer to." "go ahead," said dick. "your chance is as good as anybody's." while this was passing between dick and his companion, one of the boys, a rather supercilious-looking young gentleman, genteelly dressed, and evidently having a very high opinion of his dress and himself turned suddenly to dick, and remarked,-- "i've seen you before." "oh, have you?" said dick, whirling round; "then p'r'aps you'd like to see me behind." at this unexpected answer all the boys burst into a laugh with the exception of the questioner, who, evidently, considered that dick had been disrespectful. "i've seen you somewhere," he said, in a surly tone, correcting himself. "most likely you have," said dick. "that's where i generally keep myself." there was another laugh at the expense of roswell crawford, for that was the name of the young aristocrat. but he had his revenge ready. no boy relishes being an object of ridicule, and it was with a feeling of satisfaction that he retorted,-- "i know you for all your impudence. you're nothing but a boot-black." this information took the boys who were standing around by surprise, for dick was well-dressed, and had none of the implements of his profession with him. "s'pose i be," said dick. "have you got any objection?" "not at all," said roswell, curling his lip; "only you'd better stick to blacking boots, and not try to get into a store." "thank you for your kind advice," said dick. "is it gratooitous, or do you expect to be paid for it?" "you're an impudent fellow." "that's a very cheerin' reflection," said dick, good-naturedly. "do you expect to get this place when there's gentlemen's sons applying for it? a boot-black in a store! that would be a good joke." boys as well as men are selfish, and, looking upon dick as a possible rival, the boys who listened seemed disposed to take the same view of the situation. "that's what i say," said one of them, taking sides with roswell. "don't trouble yourselves," said dick. "i aint agoin' to cut you out. i can't afford to give up a independent and loocrative purfession for a salary of three dollars a week." "hear him talk!" said roswell crawford, with an unpleasant sneer. "if you are not trying to get the place, what are you here for?" "i came with a friend of mine," said dick, indicating fosdick, "who's goin' in for the situation." "is he a boot-black, too?" demanded roswell, superciliously. "he!" retorted dick, loftily. "didn't you know his father was a member of congress, and intimately acquainted with all the biggest men in the state?" the boys surveyed fosdick as if they did not quite know whether to credit this statement, which, for the credit of dick's veracity, it will be observed he did not assert, but only propounded in the form of a question. there was no time for comment, however, as just then the proprietor of the store came to the door, and, casting his eyes over the waiting group, singled out roswell crawford, and asked him to enter. "well, my lad, how old are you?" "fourteen years old," said roswell, consequentially. "are your parents living?" "only my mother. my father is dead. he was a gentleman," he added, complacently. "oh, was he?" said the shop-keeper. "do you live in the city?" "yes, sir. in clinton place." "have you ever been in a situation before?" "yes, sir," said roswell, a little reluctantly. "where was it?" "in an office on dey street." "how long were you there?" "a week." "it seems to me that was a short time. why did you not stay longer?" "because," said roswell, loftily, "the man wanted me to get to the office at eight o'clock, and make the fire. i'm a gentleman's son, and am not used to such dirty work." "indeed!" said the shop-keeper. "well, young gentleman, you may step aside a few minutes. i will speak with some of the other boys before making my selection." several other boys were called in and questioned. roswell stood by and listened with an air of complacency. he could not help thinking his chances the best. "the man can see i'm a gentleman, and will do credit to his store," he thought. at length it came to fosdick's turn. he entered with no very sanguine anticipations of success. unlike roswell, he set a very low estimate upon his qualifications when compared with those of other applicants. but his modest bearing, and quiet, gentlemanly manner, entirely free from pretension, prepossessed the shop-keeper, who was a sensible man, in his favor. "do you reside in the city?" he asked. "yes, sir," said henry. "what is your age?" "twelve." "have you ever been in any situation?" "no, sir." "i should like to see a specimen of your handwriting. here, take the pen and write your name." henry fosdick had a very handsome handwriting for a boy of his age, while roswell, who had submitted to the same test, could do little more than scrawl. "do you reside with your parents?" "no, sir, they are dead." "where do you live, then?" "in mott street." roswell curled his lip when this name was pronounced, for mott street, as my new york readers know, is in the immediate neighborhood of the five-points, and very far from a fashionable locality. "have you any testimonials to present?" asked mr. henderson, for that was his name. fosdick hesitated. this was the question which he had foreseen would give him trouble. but at this moment it happened most opportunely that mr. greyson entered the shop with the intention of buying a hat. "yes," said fosdick, promptly; "i will refer to this gentleman." "how do you do, fosdick?" asked mr. greyson, noticing him for the first time. "how do you happen to be here?" "i am applying for a place, sir," said fosdick. "may i refer the gentleman to you?" "certainly, i shall be glad to speak a good word for you. mr. henderson, this is a member of my sunday-school class, of whose good qualities and good abilities i can speak confidently." "that will be sufficient," said the shop-keeper, who knew mr. greyson's high character and position. "he could have no better recommendation. you may come to the store to-morrow morning at half past seven o'clock. the pay will be three dollars a week for the first six months. if i am satisfied with you, i shall then raise it to five dollars." the other boys looked disappointed, but none more so than roswell crawford. he would have cared less if any one else had obtained the situation; but for a boy who lived in mott street to be preferred to him, a gentleman's son, he considered indeed humiliating. in a spirit of petty spite, he was tempted to say, "he's a boot-black. ask him if he isn't." "he's an honest and intelligent lad," said mr. greyson. "as for you, young man, i only hope you have one-half his good qualities." roswell crawford left the store in disgust, and the other unsuccessful applicants with him. "what luck, fosdick?" asked dick, eagerly, as his friend came out of the store. "i've got the place," said fosdick, in accents of satisfaction; "but it was only because mr. greyson spoke up for me." "he's a trump," said dick, enthusiastically. the gentleman, so denominated, came out before the boys went away, and spoke with them kindly. both dick and henry were highly pleased at the success of the application. the pay would indeed be small, but, expended economically, fosdick thought he could get along on it, receiving his room rent, as before, in return for his services as dick's private tutor. dick determined, as soon as his education would permit, to follow his companion's example. "i don't know as you'll be willin' to room with a boot-black," he said, to henry, "now you're goin' into business." "i couldn't room with a better friend, dick," said fosdick, affectionately, throwing his arm round our hero. "when we part, it'll be because you wish it." so fosdick entered upon a new career. chapter xx nine months later the next morning fosdick rose early, put on his new suit, and, after getting breakfast, set out for the broadway store in which he had obtained a position. he left his little blacking-box in the room. "it'll do to brush my own shoes," he said. "who knows but i may have to come back to it again?" "no danger," said dick; "i'll take care of the feet, and you'll have to look after the heads, now you're in a hat-store." "i wish you had a place too," said fosdick. "i don't know enough yet," said dick. "wait till i've gradooated." "and can put a.b. after your name." "what's that?" "it stands for bachelor of arts. it's a degree that students get when they graduate from college." "oh," said dick, "i didn't know but it meant a boot-black. i can put that after my name now. wouldn't dick hunter, a.b., sound tip-top?" "i must be going," said fosdick. "it won't do for me to be late the very first morning." "that's the difference between you and me," said dick. "i'm my own boss, and there aint no one to find fault with me if i'm late. but i might as well be goin' too. there's a gent as comes down to his store pretty early that generally wants a shine." the two boys parted at the park. fosdick crossed it, and proceeded to the hat-store, while dick, hitching up his pants, began to look about him for a customer. it was seldom that dick had to wait long. he was always on the alert, and if there was any business to do he was always sure to get his share of it. he had now a stronger inducement than ever to attend strictly to business; his little stock of money in the savings bank having been nearly exhausted by his liberality to his room-mate. he determined to be as economical as possible, and moreover to study as hard as he could, that he might be able to follow fosdick's example, and obtain a place in a store or counting-room. as there were no striking incidents occurring in our hero's history within the next nine months, i propose to pass over that period, and recount the progress he made in that time. fosdick was still at the hat-store, having succeeded in giving perfect satisfaction to mr. henderson. his wages had just been raised to five dollars a week. he and dick still kept house together at mrs. mooney's lodging-house, and lived very frugally, so that both were able to save up money. dick had been unusually successful in business. he had several regular patrons, who had been drawn to him by his ready wit, and quick humor, and from two of them he had received presents of clothing, which had saved him any expense on that score. his income had averaged quite seven dollars a week in addition to this. of this amount he was now obliged to pay one dollar weekly for the room which he and fosdick occupied, but he was still able to save one half the remainder. at the end of nine months therefore, or thirty-nine weeks, it will be seen that he had accumulated no less a sum than one hundred and seventeen dollars. dick may be excused for feeling like a capitalist when he looked at the long row of deposits in his little bank-book. there were other boys in the same business who had earned as much money, but they had had little care for the future, and spent as they went along, so that few could boast a bank-account, however small. "you'll be a rich man some time, dick," said henry fosdick, one evening. "and live on fifth avenoo," said dick. "perhaps so. stranger things have happened." "well," said dick, "if such a misfortin' should come upon me i should bear it like a man. when you see a fifth avenoo manshun for sale for a hundred and seventeen dollars, just let me know and i'll buy it as an investment." "two hundred and fifty years ago you might have bought one for that price, probably. real estate wasn't very high among the indians." "just my luck," said dick; "i was born too late. i'd orter have been an indian, and lived in splendor on my present capital." "i'm afraid you'd have found your present business rather unprofitable at that time." but dick had gained something more valuable than money. he had studied regularly every evening, and his improvement had been marvellous. he could now read well, write a fair hand, and had studied arithmetic as far as interest. besides this he had obtained some knowledge of grammar and geography. if some of my boy readers, who have been studying for years, and got no farther than this, should think it incredible that dick, in less than a year, and studying evenings only, should have accomplished it, they must remember that our hero was very much in earnest in his desire to improve. he knew that, in order to grow up respectable, he must be well advanced, and he was willing to work. but then the reader must not forget that dick was naturally a smart boy. his street education had sharpened his faculties, and taught him to rely upon himself. he knew that it would take him a long time to reach the goal which he had set before him, and he had patience to keep on trying. he knew that he had only himself to depend upon, and he determined to make the most of himself,--a resolution which is the secret of success in nine cases out of ten. "dick," said fosdick, one evening, after they had completed their studies, "i think you'll have to get another teacher soon." "why?" asked dick, in some surprise. "have you been offered a more loocrative position?" "no," said fosdick, "but i find i have taught you all i know myself. you are now as good a scholar as i am." "is that true?" said dick, eagerly, a flush of gratification coloring his brown cheek. "yes," said fosdick. "you've made wonderful progress. i propose, now that evening schools have begun, that we join one, and study together through the winter." "all right," said dick. "i'd be willin' to go now; but when i first began to study i was ashamed to have anybody know that i was so ignorant. do you really mean, fosdick, that i know as much as you?" "yes, dick, it's true." "then i've got you to thank for it," said dick, earnestly. "you've made me what i am." "and haven't you paid me, dick?" "by payin' the room-rent," said dick, impulsively. "what's that? it isn't half enough. i wish you'd take half my money; you deserve it." "thank you, dick, but you're too generous. you've more than paid me. who was it took my part when all the other boys imposed upon me? and who gave me money to buy clothes, and so got me my situation?" "oh, that's nothing!" said dick. "it's a great deal, dick. i shall never forget it. but now it seems to me you might try to get a situation yourself." "do i know enough?" "you know as much as i do." "then i'll try," said dick, decidedly. "i wish there was a place in our store," said fosdick. "it would be pleasant for us to be together." "never mind," said dick; "there'll be plenty of other chances. p'r'aps a. t. stewart might like a partner. i wouldn't ask more'n a quarter of the profits." "which would be a very liberal proposal on your part," said fosdick, smiling. "but perhaps mr. stewart might object to a partner living on mott street." "i'd just as lieves move to fifth avenoo," said dick. "i aint got no prejudices in favor of mott street." "nor i," said fosdick, "and in fact i have been thinking it might be a good plan for us to move as soon as we could afford. mrs. mooney doesn't keep the room quite so neat as she might." "no," said dick. "she aint got no prejudices against dirt. look at that towel." dick held up the article indicated, which had now seen service nearly a week, and hard service at that,--dick's avocation causing him to be rather hard on towels. "yes," said fosdick, "i've got about tired of it. i guess we can find some better place without having to pay much more. when we move, you must let me pay my share of the rent." "we'll see about that," said dick. "do you propose to move to fifth avenoo?" "not just at present, but to some more agreeable neighborhood than this. we'll wait till you get a situation, and then we can decide." a few days later, as dick was looking about for customers in the neighborhood of the park, his attention was drawn to a fellow boot-black, a boy about a year younger than himself, who appeared to have been crying. "what's the matter, tom?" asked dick. "haven't you had luck to-day?" "pretty good," said the boy; "but we're havin' hard times at home. mother fell last week and broke her arm, and to-morrow we've got to pay the rent, and if we don't the landlord says he'll turn us out." "haven't you got anything except what you earn?" asked dick. "no," said tom, "not now. mother used to earn three or four dollars a week; but she can't do nothin' now, and my little sister and brother are too young." dick had quick sympathies. he had been so poor himself, and obliged to submit to so many privations that he knew from personal experience how hard it was. tom wilkins he knew as an excellent boy who never squandered his money, but faithfully carried it home to his mother. in the days of his own extravagance and shiftlessness he had once or twice asked tom to accompany him to the old bowery or tony pastor's, but tom had always steadily refused. "i'm sorry for you, tom," he said. "how much do you owe for rent?" "two weeks now," said tom. "how much is it a week?" "two dollars a week--that makes four." "have you got anything towards it?" "no; i've had to spend all my money for food for mother and the rest of us. i've had pretty hard work to do that. i don't know what we'll do. i haven't any place to go to, and i'm afraid mother'll get cold in her arm." "can't you borrow the money somewhere?" asked dick. tom shook his head despondingly. "all the people i know are as poor as i am," said he. "they'd help me if they could, but it's hard work for them to get along themselves." "i'll tell you what, tom," said dick, impulsively, "i'll stand your friend." "have you got any money?" asked tom, doubtfully. "got any money!" repeated dick. "don't you know that i run a bank on my own account? how much is it you need?" "four dollars," said tom. "if we don't pay that before to-morrow night, out we go. you haven't got as much as that, have you?" "here are three dollars," said dick, drawing out his pocket-book. "i'll let you have the rest to-morrow, and maybe a little more." "you're a right down good fellow, dick," said tom; "but won't you want it yourself?" "oh, i've got some more," said dick. "maybe i'll never be able to pay you." "s'pose you don't," said dick; "i guess i won't fail." "i won't forget it, dick. i hope i'll be able to do somethin' for you sometime." "all right," said dick. "i'd ought to help you. i haven't got no mother to look out for. i wish i had." there was a tinge of sadness in his tone, as he pronounced the last four words; but dick's temperament was sanguine, and he never gave way to unavailing sadness. accordingly he began to whistle as he turned away, only adding, "i'll see you to-morrow, tom." the three dollars which dick had handed to tom wilkins were his savings for the present week. it was now thursday afternoon. his rent, which amounted to a dollar, he expected to save out of the earnings of friday and saturday. in order to give tom the additional assistance he had promised, dick would be obliged to have recourse to his bank-savings. he would not have ventured to trench upon it for any other reason but this. but he felt that it would be selfish to allow tom and his mother to suffer when he had it in his power to relieve them. but dick was destined to be surprised, and that in a disagreeable manner, when he reached home. chapter xxi dick loses his bank-book it was hinted at the close of the last chapter that dick was destined to be disagreeably surprised on reaching home. having agreed to give further assistance to tom wilkins, he was naturally led to go to the drawer where he and fosdick kept their bank-books. to his surprise and uneasiness _the drawer proved to be empty!_ "come here a minute, fosdick," he said. "what's the matter, dick?" "i can't find my bank-book, nor yours either. what's 'come of them?" "i took mine with me this morning, thinking i might want to put in a little more money. i've got it in my pocket, now." "but where's mine?" asked dick, perplexed. "i don't know. i saw it in the drawer when i took mine this morning." "are you sure?" "yes, positive, for i looked into it to see how much you had got." "did you lock it again?" asked dick. "yes; didn't you have to unlock it just now?" "so i did," said dick. "but it's gone now. somebody opened it with a key that fitted the lock, and then locked it ag'in." "that must have been the way." "it's rather hard on a feller," said dick, who, for the first time since we became acquainted with him, began to feel down-hearted. "don't give it up, dick. you haven't lost the money, only the bank-book." "aint that the same thing?" "no. you can go to the bank to-morrow morning, as soon as it opens, and tell them you have lost the book, and ask them not to pay the money to any one except yourself." "so i can," said dick, brightening up. "that is, if the thief hasn't been to the bank to-day." "if he has, they might detect him by his handwriting." "i'd like to get hold of the one that stole it," said dick, indignantly. "i'd give him a good lickin'." "it must have been somebody in the house. suppose we go and see mrs. mooney. she may know whether anybody came into our room to-day." the two boys went downstairs, and knocked at the door of a little back sitting-room where mrs. mooney generally spent her evenings. it was a shabby little room, with a threadbare carpet on the floor, the walls covered with a certain large-figured paper, patches of which had been stripped off here and there, exposing the plaster, the remainder being defaced by dirt and grease. but mrs. mooney had one of those comfortable temperaments which are tolerant of dirt, and didn't mind it in the least. she was seated beside a small pine work-table, industriously engaged in mending stockings. "good-evening, mrs. mooney," said fosdick, politely. "good-evening," said the landlady. "sit down, if you can find chairs. i'm hard at work as you see, but a poor lone widder can't afford to be idle." "we can't stop long, mrs. mooney, but my friend here has had something taken from his room to-day, and we thought we'd come and see you about it." "what is it?" asked the landlady. "you don't think i'd take anything? if i am poor, it's an honest name i've always had, as all my lodgers can testify." "certainly not, mrs. mooney; but there are others in the house that may not be honest. my friend has lost his bank-book. it was safe in the drawer this morning, but to-night it is not to be found." "how much money was there in it?" asked mrs. mooney. "over a hundred dollars," said fosdick. "it was my whole fortun'," said dick. "i was goin' to buy a house next year." mrs. mooney was evidently surprised to learn the extent of dick's wealth, and was disposed to regard him with increased respect. "was the drawer locked?" she asked. "yes." "then it couldn't have been bridget. i don't think she has any keys." "she wouldn't know what a bank-book was," said fosdick. "you didn't see any of the lodgers go into our room to-day, did you?" "i shouldn't wonder if it was jim travis," said mrs. mooney, suddenly. this james travis was a bar-tender in a low groggery in mulberry street, and had been for a few weeks an inmate of mrs. mooney's lodging-house. he was a coarse-looking fellow who, from his appearance, evidently patronized liberally the liquor he dealt out to others. he occupied a room opposite dick's, and was often heard by the two boys reeling upstairs in a state of intoxication, uttering shocking oaths. this travis had made several friendly overtures to dick and his room-mate, and had invited them to call round at the bar-room where he tended, and take something. but this invitation had never been accepted, partly because the boys were better engaged in the evening, and partly because neither of them had taken a fancy to mr. travis; which certainly was not strange, for nature had not gifted him with many charms, either of personal appearance or manners. the rejection of his friendly proffers had caused him to take a dislike to dick and henry, whom he considered stiff and unsocial. "what makes you think it was travis?" asked fosdick. "he isn't at home in the daytime." "but he was to-day. he said he had got a bad cold, and had to come home for a clean handkerchief." "did you see him?" asked dick. "yes," said mrs. mooney. "bridget was hanging out clothes, and i went to the door to let him in." "i wonder if he had a key that would fit our drawer," said fosdick. "yes," said mrs. mooney. "the bureaus in the two rooms are just alike. i got 'em at auction, and most likely the locks is the same." "it must have been he," said dick, looking towards fosdick. "yes," said fosdick, "it looks like it." "what's to be done? that's what i'd like to know," said dick. "of course he'll say he hasn't got it; and he won't be such a fool as to leave it in his room." "if he hasn't been to the bank, it's all right," said fosdick. "you can go there the first thing to-morrow morning, and stop their paying any money on it." "but i can't get any money on it myself," said dick. "i told tom wilkins i'd let him have some more money to-morrow, or his sick mother'll have to turn out of their lodgin's." "how much money were you going to give him?" "i gave him three dollars to-day, and was goin' to give him two dollars to-morrow." "i've got the money, dick. i didn't go to the bank this morning." "all right. i'll take it, and pay you back next week." "no, dick; if you've given three dollars, you must let me give two." "no, fosdick, i'd rather give the whole. you know i've got more money than you. no, i haven't, either," said dick, the memory of his loss flashing upon him. "i thought i was rich this morning, but now i'm in destitoot circumstances." "cheer up, dick; you'll get your money back." "i hope so," said our hero, rather ruefully. the fact was, that our friend dick was beginning to feel what is so often experienced by men who do business of a more important character and on a larger scale than he, the bitterness of a reverse of circumstances. with one hundred dollars and over carefully laid away in the savings bank, he had felt quite independent. wealth is comparative, and dick probably felt as rich as many men who are worth a hundred thousand dollars. he was beginning to feel the advantages of his steady self-denial, and to experience the pleasures of property. not that dick was likely to be unduly attached to money. let it be said to his credit that it had never given him so much satisfaction as when it enabled him to help tom wilkins in his trouble. besides this, there was another thought that troubled him. when he obtained a place he could not expect to receive as much as he was now making from blacking boots,--probably not more than three dollars a week,--while his expenses without clothing would amount to four dollars. to make up the deficiency he had confidently relied upon his savings, which would be sufficient to carry him along for a year, if necessary. if he should not recover his money, he would be compelled to continue a boot-black for at least six months longer; and this was rather a discouraging reflection. on the whole it is not to be wondered at that dick felt unusually sober this evening, and that neither of the boys felt much like studying. the two boys consulted as to whether it would be best to speak to travis about it. it was not altogether easy to decide. fosdick was opposed to it. "it will only put him on his guard," said he, "and i don't see as it will do any good. of course he will deny it. we'd better keep quiet, and watch him, and, by giving notice at the bank, we can make sure that he doesn't get any money on it. if he does present himself at the bank, they will know at once that he is a thief, and he can be arrested." this view seemed reasonable, and dick resolved to adopt it. on the whole, he began to think prospects were brighter than he had at first supposed, and his spirits rose a little. "how'd he know i had any bank-book? that's what i can't make out," he said. "don't you remember?" said fosdick, after a moment's thought, "we were speaking of our savings, two or three evenings since?" "yes," said dick. "our door was a little open at the time, and i heard somebody come upstairs, and stop a minute in front of it. it must have been jim travis. in that way he probably found out about your money, and took the opportunity to-day to get hold of it." this might or might not be the correct explanation. at all events it seemed probable. the boys were just on the point of going to bed, later in the evening, when a knock was heard at the door, and, to their no little surprise, their neighbor, jim travis, proved to be the caller. he was a sallow-complexioned young man, with dark hair and bloodshot eyes. he darted a quick glance from one to the other as he entered, which did not escape the boys' notice. "how are ye, to-night?" he said, sinking into one of the two chairs with which the room was scantily furnished. "jolly," said dick. "how are you?" "tired as a dog," was the reply. "hard work and poor pay; that's the way with me. i wanted to go to the theater, to-night, but i was hard up, and couldn't raise the cash." here he darted another quick glance at the boys; but neither betrayed anything. "you don't go out much, do you?" he said "not much," said fosdick. "we spend our evenings in study." "that's precious slow," said travis, rather contemptuously. "what's the use of studying so much? you don't expect to be a lawyer, do you, or anything of that sort?" "maybe," said dick. "i haven't made up my mind yet. if my feller-citizens should want me to go to congress some time, i shouldn't want to disapp'int 'em; and then readin' and writin' might come handy." "well," said travis, rather abruptly, "i'm tired and i guess i'll turn in." "good-night," said fosdick. the boys looked at each other as their visitor left the room. "he came in to see if we'd missed the bank-book," said dick. "and to turn off suspicion from himself, by letting us know he had no money," added fosdick. "that's so," said dick. "i'd like to have searched them pockets of his." chapter xxii tracking the thief fosdick was right in supposing that jim travis had stolen the bank-book. he was also right in supposing that that worthy young man had come to the knowledge of dick's savings by what he had accidentally overheard. now, travis, like a very large number of young men of his class, was able to dispose of a larger amount of money than he was able to earn. moreover, he had no great fancy for work at all, and would have been glad to find some other way of obtaining money enough to pay his expenses. he had recently received a letter from an old companion, who had strayed out to california, and going at once to the mines had been lucky enough to get possession of a very remunerative claim. he wrote to travis that he had already realized two thousand dollars from it, and expected to make his fortune within six months. two thousand dollars! this seemed to travis a very large sum, and quite dazzled his imagination. he was at once inflamed with the desire to go out to california and try his luck. in his present situation he only received thirty dollars a month, which was probably all that his services were worth, but went a very little way towards gratifying his expensive tastes. accordingly he determined to take the next steamer to the land of gold, if he could possibly manage to get money enough to pay the passage. the price of a steerage passage at that time was seventy-five dollars,--not a large sum, certainly,--but it might as well have been seventy-five hundred for any chance james travis had of raising the amount at present. his available funds consisted of precisely two dollars and a quarter; of which sum, one dollar and a half was due to his washerwoman. this, however, would not have troubled travis much, and he would conveniently have forgotten all about it; but, even leaving this debt unpaid, the sum at his command would not help him materially towards paying his passage money. travis applied for help to two or three of his companions; but they were all of that kind who never keep an account with savings banks, but carry all their spare cash about with them. one of these friends offered to lend him thirty-seven cents, and another a dollar; but neither of these offers seemed to encourage him much. he was about giving up his project in despair, when he learned, accidentally, as we have already said, the extent of dick's savings. one hundred and seventeen dollars! why, that would not only pay his passage, but carry him up to the mines, after he had arrived in san francisco. he could not help thinking it over, and the result of this thinking was that he determined to borrow it of dick without leave. knowing that neither of the boys were in their room in the daytime, he came back in the course of the morning, and, being admitted by mrs. mooney herself, said, by way of accounting for his presence, that he had a cold, and had come back for a handkerchief. the landlady suspected nothing, and, returning at once to her work in the kitchen, left the coast clear. travis at once entered dick's room, and, as there seemed to be no other place for depositing money, tried the bureau-drawers. they were all readily opened, except one, which proved to be locked. this he naturally concluded must contain the money, and going back to his own chamber for the key of the bureau, tried it on his return, and found to his satisfaction that it would fit. when he discovered the bank-book, his joy was mingled with disappointment. he had expected to find bank-bills instead. this would have saved all further trouble, and would have been immediately available. obtaining money at the savings bank would involve fresh risk. travis hesitated whether to take it or not; but finally decided that it would be worth the trouble and hazard. he accordingly slipped the book into his pocket, locked the drawer again, and, forgetting all about the handkerchief for which he had come home went downstairs, and into the street. there would have been time to go to the savings bank that day, but travis had already been absent from his place of business some time, and did not venture to take the additional time required. besides, not being very much used to savings banks, never having had occasion to use them, he thought it would be more prudent to look over the rules and regulations, and see if he could not get some information as to the way he ought to proceed. so the day passed, and dick's money was left in safety at the bank. in the evening, it occurred to travis that it might be well to find out whether dick had discovered his loss. this reflection it was that induced the visit which is recorded at the close of the last chapter. the result was that he was misled by the boys' silence on the subject, and concluded that nothing had yet been discovered. "good!" thought travis, with satisfaction. "if they don't find out for twenty-four hours, it'll be too late, then, and i shall be all right." there being a possibility of the loss being discovered before the boys went out in the morning, travis determined to see them at that time, and judge whether such was the case. he waited, therefore, until he heard the boys come out, and then opened his own door. "morning, gents," said he, sociably. "going to business?" "yes," said dick. "i'm afraid my clerks'll be lazy if i aint on hand." "good joke!" said travis. "if you pay good wages, i'd like to speak for a place." "i pay all i get myself," said dick. "how's business with you?" "so so. why don't you call round, some time?" "all my evenin's is devoted to literatoor and science," said dick. "thank you all the same." "where do you hang out?" inquired travis, in choice language, addressing fosdick. "at henderson's hat and cap store, on broadway." "i'll look in upon you some time when i want a tile," said travis. "i suppose you sell cheaper to your friends." "i'll be as reasonable as i can," said fosdick, not very cordially; for he did not much fancy having it supposed by his employer that such a disreputable-looking person as travis was a friend of his. however, travis had no idea of showing himself at the broadway store, and only said this by way of making conversation, and encouraging the boys to be social. "you haven't any of you gents seen a pearl-handled knife, have you?" he asked. "no," said fosdick; "have you lost one?" "yes," said travis, with unblushing falsehood. "i left it on my bureau a day or two since. i've missed one or two other little matters. bridget don't look to me any too honest. likely she's got 'em." "what are you goin' to do about it?" said dick. "i'll keep mum unless i lose something more, and then i'll kick up a row, and haul her over the coals. have you missed anything?" "no," said fosdick, answering for himself, as he could do without violating the truth. there was a gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of travis, as he heard this. "they haven't found it out yet," he thought. "i'll bag the money to-day, and then they may whistle for it." having no further object to serve in accompanying the boys, he bade them good-morning, and turned down another street. "he's mighty friendly all of a sudden," said dick. "yes," said fosdick; "it's very evident what it all means. he wants to find out whether you have discovered your loss or not." "but he didn't find out." "no; we've put him on the wrong track. he means to get his money to-day, no doubt." "my money," suggested dick. "i accept the correction," said fosdick. "of course, dick, you'll be on hand as soon as the bank opens." "in course i shall. jim travis'll find he's walked into the wrong shop." "the bank opens at ten o'clock, you know." "i'll be there on time." the two boys separated. "good luck, dick," said fosdick, as he parted from him. "it'll all come out right, i think." "i hope 'twill," said dick. he had recovered from his temporary depression, and made up his mind that the money would be recovered. he had no idea of allowing himself to be outwitted by jim travis, and enjoyed already, in anticipation, the pleasure of defeating his rascality. it wanted two hours and a half yet to ten o'clock, and this time to dick was too precious to be wasted. it was the time of his greatest harvest. he accordingly repaired to his usual place of business, succeeded in obtaining six customers, which yielded him sixty cents. he then went to a restaurant, and got some breakfast. it was now half-past nine, and dick, feeling that it wouldn't do to be late, left his box in charge of johnny nolan, and made his way to the bank. the officers had not yet arrived, and dick lingered on the outside, waiting till they should come. he was not without a little uneasiness, fearing that travis might be as prompt as himself, and finding him there, might suspect something, and so escape the snare. but, though looking cautiously up and down the street, he could discover no traces of the supposed thief. in due time ten o'clock struck, and immediately afterwards the doors of the bank were thrown open, and our hero entered. as dick had been in the habit of making a weekly visit for the last nine months, the cashier had come to know him by sight. "you're early, this morning, my lad," he said, pleasantly. "have you got some more money to deposit? you'll be getting rich, soon." "i don't know about that," said dick. "my bank-book's been stole." "stolen!" echoed the cashier. "that's unfortunate. not so bad as it might be, though. the thief can't collect the money." "that's what i came to see about," said dick. "i was afraid he might have got it already." "he hasn't been here yet. even if he had, i remember you, and should have detected him. when was it taken?" "yesterday," said dick. "i missed it in the evenin' when i got home." "have you any suspicion as to the person who took it?" asked the cashier. dick thereupon told all he knew as to the general character and suspicious conduct of jim travis, and the cashier agreed with him that he was probably the thief. dick also gave his reason for thinking that he would visit the bank that morning, to withdraw the funds. "very good," said the cashier. "we'll be ready for him. what is the number of your book?" "no. , ," said dick. "now give me a little description of this travis whom you suspect." dick accordingly furnished a brief outline sketch of travis, not particularly complimentary to the latter. "that will answer. i think i shall know him," said the cashier. "you may depend upon it that he shall receive no money on your account." "thank you," said dick. considerably relieved in mind, our hero turned towards the door, thinking that there would be nothing gained by his remaining longer, while he would of course lose time. he had just reached the doors, which were of glass, when through them he perceived james travis himself just crossing the street, and apparently coming towards the bank. it would not do, of course, for him to be seen. "here he is," he exclaimed, hurrying back. "can't you hide me somewhere? i don't want to be seen." the cashier understood at once how the land lay. he quickly opened a little door, and admitted dick behind the counter. "stoop down," he said, "so as not to be seen." dick had hardly done so when jim travis opened the outer door, and, looking about him in a little uncertainty, walked up to the cashier's desk. chapter xxiii travis is arrested jim travis advanced into the bank with a doubtful step, knowing well that he was on a dishonest errand, and heartily wishing that he were well out of it. after a little hesitation, he approached the paying-teller, and, exhibiting the bank-book, said, "i want to get my money out." the bank-officer took the book, and, after looking at it a moment, said, "how much do you want?" "the whole of it," said travis. "you can draw out any part of it, but to draw out the whole requires a week's notice." "then i'll take a hundred dollars." "are you the person to whom the book belongs?" "yes, sir," said travis, without hesitation. "your name is--" "hunter." the bank-clerk went to a large folio volume, containing the names of depositors, and began to turn over the leaves. while he was doing this, he managed to send out a young man connected with the bank for a policeman. travis did not perceive this, or did not suspect that it had anything to do with himself. not being used to savings banks, he supposed the delay only what was usual. after a search, which was only intended to gain time that a policeman might be summoned, the cashier came back, and, sliding out a piece of paper to travis, said, "it will be necessary for you to write an order for the money." travis took a pen, which he found on the ledge outside, and wrote the order, signing his name "dick hunter," having observed that name on the outside of the book. "your name is dick hunter, then?" said the cashier, taking the paper, and looking at the thief over his spectacles. "yes," said travis, promptly. "but," continued the cashier, "i find hunter's age is put down on the bank-book as fourteen. surely you must be more than that." travis would gladly have declared that he was only fourteen; but, being in reality twenty-three, and possessing a luxuriant pair of whiskers, this was not to be thought of. he began to feel uneasy. "dick hunter's my younger brother," he said. "i'm getting out the money for him." "i thought you said your own name was dick hunter," said the cashier. "i said my name was hunter," said travis, ingeniously. "i didn't understand you." "but you've signed the name of dick hunter to this order. how is that?" questioned the troublesome cashier. travis saw that he was getting himself into a tight place; but his self-possession did not desert him. "i thought i must give my brother's name," he answered. "what is your own name?" "henry hunter." "can you bring any one to testify that the statement you are making is correct?" "yes, a dozen if you like," said travis, boldly. "give me the book, and i'll come back this afternoon. i didn't think there'd be such a fuss about getting out a little money." "wait a moment. why don't your brother come himself?" "because he's sick. he's down with the measles," said travis. here the cashier signed to dick to rise and show himself. our hero accordingly did so. "you will be glad to find that he has recovered," said the cashier, pointing to dick. with an exclamation of anger and dismay, travis, who saw the game was up, started for the door, feeling that safety made such a course prudent. but he was too late. he found himself confronted by a burly policeman, who seized him by the arm, saying, "not so fast, my man. i want you." "let me go," exclaimed travis, struggling to free himself. "i'm sorry i can't oblige you," said the officer. "you'd better not make a fuss, or i may have to hurt you a little." travis sullenly resigned himself to his fate, darting a look of rage at dick, whom he considered the author of his present misfortune. "this is your book," said the cashier, handing back his rightful property to our hero. "do you wish to draw out any money?" "two dollars," said dick. "very well. write an order for the amount." before doing so, dick, who now that he saw travis in the power of the law began to pity him, went up to the officer, and said,-- "won't you let him go? i've got my bank-book back, and i don't want anything done to him." "sorry i can't oblige you," said the officer; "but i'm not allowed to do it. he'll have to stand his trial." "i'm sorry for you, travis," said dick. "i didn't want you arrested. i only wanted my bank-book back." "curse you!" said travis, scowling vindictively. "wait till i get free. see if i don't fix you." "you needn't pity him too much," said the officer. "i know him now. he's been to the island before." "it's a lie," said travis, violently. "don't be too noisy, my friend," said the officer. "if you've got no more business here, we'll be going." he withdrew with the prisoner in charge, and dick, having drawn his two dollars, left the bank. notwithstanding the violent words the prisoner had used towards himself, and his attempted robbery, he could not help feeling sorry that he had been instrumental in causing his arrest. "i'll keep my book a little safer hereafter," thought dick. "now i must go and see tom wilkins." before dismissing the subject of travis and his theft, it may be remarked that he was duly tried, and, his guilt being clear, was sent to blackwell's island for nine months. at the end of that time, on his release, he got a chance to work his passage on a ship to san francisco, where he probably arrived in due time. at any rate, nothing more has been heard of him, and probably his threat of vengence against dick will never be carried into effect. returning to the city hall park, dick soon fell in with tom wilkins. "how are you, tom?" he said. "how's your mother?" "she's better, dick, thank you. she felt worried about bein' turned out into the street; but i gave her that money from you, and now she feels a good deal easier." "i've got some more for you, tom," said dick, producing a two-dollar bill from his pocket. "i ought not to take it from you, dick." "oh, it's all right, tom. don't be afraid." "but you may need it yourself." "there's plenty more where that came from." "any way, one dollar will be enough. with that we can pay the rent." "you'll want the other to buy something to eat." "you're very kind, dick." "i'd ought to be. i've only got myself to take care of." "well, i'll take it for my mother's sake. when you want anything done just call on tom wilkins." "all right. next week, if your mother doesn't get better, i'll give you some more." tom thanked our hero very gratefully, and dick walked away, feeling the self-approval which always accompanies a generous and disinterested action. he was generous by nature, and, before the period at which he is introduced to the reader's notice, he frequently treated his friends to cigars and oyster-stews. sometimes he invited them to accompany him to the theatre at his expense. but he never derived from these acts of liberality the same degree of satisfaction as from this timely gift to tom wilkins. he felt that his money was well bestowed, and would save an entire family from privation and discomfort. five dollars would, to be sure, make something of a difference in the mount of his savings. it was more than he was able to save up in a week. but dick felt fully repaid for what he had done, and he felt prepared to give as much more, if tom's mother should continue to be sick, and should appear to him to need it. besides all this, dick felt a justifiable pride in his financial ability to afford so handsome a gift. a year before, however much he might have desired to give, it would have been quite out of his power to give five dollars. his cash balance never reached that amount. it was seldom, indeed, that it equalled one dollar. in more ways than one dick was beginning to reap the advantage of his self-denial and judicious economy. it will be remembered that when mr. whitney at parting with dick presented him with five dollars, he told him that he might repay it to some other boy who was struggling upward. dick thought of this, and it occurred to him that after all he was only paying up an old debt. when fosdick came home in the evening, dick announced his success in recovering his lost money, and described the manner it had been brought about. "you're in luck," said fosdick. "i guess we'd better not trust the bureau-drawer again." "i mean to carry my book round with me," said dick. "so shall i, as long as we stay at mrs. mooney's. i wish we were in a better place." "i must go down and tell her she needn't expect travis back. poor chap, i pity him!" travis was never more seen in mrs. mooney's establishment. he was owing that lady for a fortnight's rent of his room, which prevented her feeling much compassion for him. the room was soon after let to a more creditable tenant who proved a less troublesome neighbor than his predecessor. chapter xxiv dick receives a letter it was about a week after dick's recovery of his bank-book, that fosdick brought home with him in the evening a copy of the "daily sun." "would you like to see your name in print, dick?" he asked. "yes," said dick, who was busy at the wash-stand, endeavoring to efface the marks which his day's work had left upon his hands. "they haven't put me up for mayor, have they? 'cause if they have, i shan't accept. it would interfere too much with my private business." "no," said fosdick, "they haven't put you up for office yet, though that may happen sometime. but if you want to see your name in print, here it is." dick was rather incredulous, but, having dried his hands on the towel, took the paper, and following the directions of fosdick's finger, observed in the list of advertised letters the name of "ragged dick." "by gracious, so it is," said he. "do you s'pose it means me?" "i don't know of any other ragged dick,--do you?" "no," said dick, reflectively; "it must be me. but i don't know of anybody that would be likely to write to me." "perhaps it is frank whitney," suggested fosdick, after a little reflection. "didn't he promise to write to you?" "yes," said dick, "and he wanted me to write to him." "where is he now?" "he was going to a boarding-school in connecticut, he said. the name of the town was barnton." "very likely the letter is from him." "i hope it is. frank was a tip-top boy, and he was the first that made me ashamed of bein' so ignorant and dirty." "you had better go to the post-office to-morrow morning, and ask for the letter." "p'r'aps they won't give it to me." "suppose you wear the old clothes you used to a year ago, when frank first saw you? they won't have any doubt of your being ragged dick then." "i guess i will. i'll be sort of ashamed to be seen in 'em though," said dick, who had considerable more pride in a neat personal appearance than when we were first introduced to him. "it will be only for one day, or one morning," said fosdick. "i'd do more'n that for the sake of gettin' a letter from frank. i'd like to see him." the next morning, in accordance with the suggestion of fosdick, dick arrayed himself in the long disused washington coat and napoleon pants, which he had carefully preserved, for what reason he could hardly explain. when fairly equipped, dick surveyed himself in the mirror,--if the little seven-by-nine-inch looking-glass, with which the room was furnished, deserved the name. the result of the survey was not on the whole a pleasing one. to tell the truth, dick was quite ashamed of his appearance, and, on opening the chamber-door, looked around to see that the coast was clear, not being willing to have any of his fellow-boarders see him in his present attire. he managed to slip out into the street unobserved, and, after attending to two or three regular customers who came down-town early in the morning, he made his way down nassau street to the post-office. he passed along until he came to a compartment on which he read advertised letters, and, stepping up to the little window, said,-- "there's a letter for me. i saw it advertised in the 'sun' yesterday." "what name?" demanded the clerk. "ragged dick," answered our hero. "that's a queer name," said the clerk, surveying him a little curiously. "are you ragged dick?" "if you don't believe me, look at my clo'es," said dick. "that's pretty good proof, certainly," said the clerk, laughing. "if that isn't your name, it deserves to be." "i believe in dressin' up to your name," said dick. "do you know any one in barnton, connecticut?" asked the clerk, who had by this time found the letter. "yes," said dick. "i know a chap that's at boardin'-school there." "it appears to be in a boy's hand. i think it must be yours." the letter was handed to dick through the window. he received it eagerly, and drawing back so as not to be in the way of the throng who were constantly applying for letters, or slipping them into the boxes provided for them, hastily opened it, and began to read. as the reader may be interested in the contents of the letter as well as dick, we transcribe it below. it was dated barnton, conn., and commenced thus,-- "dear dick,--you must excuse my addressing this letter to 'ragged dick'; but the fact is, i don't know what your last name is, nor where you live. i am afraid there is not much chance of your getting this letter; but i hope you will. i have thought of you very often, and wondered how you were getting along, and i should have written to you before if i had known where to direct. "let me tell you a little about myself. barnton is a very pretty country town, only about six miles from hartford. the boarding-school which i attend is under the charge of ezekiel munroe, a.m. he is a man of about fifty, a graduate of yale college, and has always been a teacher. it is a large two-story house, with an addition containing a good many small bed-chambers for the boys. there are about twenty of us, and there is one assistant teacher who teaches the english branches. mr. munroe, or old zeke, as we call him behind his back, teaches latin and greek. i am studying both these languages, because father wants me to go to college. "but you won't be interested in hearing about our studies. i will tell you how we amuse ourselves. there are about fifty acres of land belonging to mr. munroe; so that we have plenty of room for play. about a quarter of a mile from the house there is a good-sized pond. there is a large, round-bottomed boat, which is stout and strong. every wednesday and saturday afternoon, when the weather is good, we go out rowing on the pond. mr. barton, the assistant teacher, goes with us, to look after us. in the summer we are allowed to go in bathing. in the winter there is splendid skating on the pond. "besides this, we play ball a good deal, and we have various other plays. so we have a pretty good time, although we study pretty hard too. i am getting on very well in my studies. father has not decided yet where he will send me to college. "i wish you were here, dick. i should enjoy your company, and besides i should like to feel that you were getting an education. i think you are naturally a pretty smart boy; but i suppose, as you have to earn your own living, you don't get much chance to learn. i only wish i had a few hundred dollars of my own. i would have you come up here, and attend school with us. if i ever have a chance to help you in any way, you may be sure that i will. "i shall have to wind up my letter now, as i have to hand in a composition to-morrow, on the life and character of washington. i might say that i have a friend who wears a coat that once belonged to the general. but i suppose that coat must be worn out by this time. i don't much like writing compositions. i would a good deal rather write letters. "i have written a longer letter than i meant to. i hope you will get it, though i am afraid not. if you do, you must be sure to answer it, as soon as possible. you needn't mind if your writing does look like 'hens-tracks,' as you told me once. "good-by, dick. you must always think of me, as your very true friend, "frank whitney." dick read this letter with much satisfaction. it is always pleasant to be remembered, and dick had so few friends that it was more to him than to boys who are better provided. again, he felt a new sense of importance in having a letter addressed to him. it was the first letter he had ever received. if it had been sent to him a year before, he would not have been able to read it. but now, thanks to fosdick's instructions, he could not only read writing, but he could write a very good hand himself. there was one passage in the letter which pleased dick. it was where frank said that if he had the money he would pay for his education himself. "he's a tip-top feller," said dick. "i wish i could see him ag'in." there were two reasons why dick would like to have seen frank. one was, the natural pleasure he would have in meeting a friend; but he felt also that he would like to have frank witness the improvement he had made in his studies and mode of life. "he'd find me a little more 'spectable than when he first saw me," thought dick. dick had by this time got up to printing house square. standing on spruce street, near the "tribune" office, was his old enemy, micky maguire. it has already been said that micky felt a natural enmity towards those in his own condition in life who wore better clothes than himself. for the last nine months, dick's neat appearance had excited the ire of the young philistine. to appear in neat attire and with a clean face micky felt was a piece of presumption, and an assumption of superiority on the part of our hero, and he termed it "tryin' to be a swell." now his astonished eyes rested on dick in his ancient attire, which was very similar to his own. it was a moment of triumph to him. he felt that "pride had had a fall," and he could not forbear reminding dick of it. "them's nice clo'es you've got on," said he, sarcastically, as dick came up. "yes," said dick, promptly. "i've been employin' your tailor. if my face was only dirty we'd be taken for twin brothers." "so you've give up tryin' to be a swell?" "only for this partic'lar occasion," said dick. "i wanted to make a fashionable call, so i put on my regimentals." "i don't b'lieve you've got any better clo'es," said micky. "all right," said dick, "i won't charge you nothin' for what you believe." here a customer presented himself for micky, and dick went back to his room to change his clothes, before resuming business. chapter xxv dick writes his first letter when fosdick reached home in the evening, dick displayed his letter with some pride. "it's a nice letter," said fosdick, after reading it. "i should like to know frank." "i'll bet you would," said dick. "he's a trump." "when are you going to answer it?" "i don't know," said dick, dubiously. "i never writ a letter." "that's no reason why you shouldn't. there's always a first time, you know." "i don't know what to say," said dick. "get some paper and sit down to it, and you'll find enough to say. you can do that this evening instead of studying." "if you'll look it over afterwards, and shine it up a little." "yes, if it needs it; but i rather think frank would like it best just as you wrote it." dick decided to adopt fosdick's suggestion. he had very serious doubts as to his ability to write a letter. like a good many other boys, he looked upon it as a very serious job, not reflecting that, after all, letter-writing is nothing but talking upon paper. still, in spite of his misgivings, he felt that the letter ought to be answered, and he wished frank to hear from him. after various preparations, he at last got settled down to his task, and, before the evening was over, a letter was written. as the first letter which dick had ever produced, and because it was characteristic of him, my readers may like to read it. here it is,-- "dear frank,--i got your letter this mornin', and was very glad to hear you hadn't forgotten ragged dick. i aint so ragged as i was. openwork coats and trowsers has gone out of fashion. i put on the washington coat and napoleon pants to go to the post-office, for fear they wouldn't think i was the boy that was meant. on my way back i received the congratulations of my intimate friend, micky maguire, on my improved appearance. "i've give up sleepin' in boxes, and old wagons, findin' it didn't agree with my constitution. i've hired a room in mott street, and have got a private tooter, who rooms with me and looks after my studies in the evenin'. mott street aint very fashionable; but my manshun on fifth avenoo isn't finished yet, and i'm afraid it won't be till i'm a gray-haired veteran. i've got a hundred dollars towards it, which i've saved up from my earnin's. i haven't forgot what you and your uncle said to me, and i'm tryin' to grow up 'spectable. i haven't been to tony pastor's, or the old bowery, for ever so long. i'd rather save up my money to support me in my old age. when my hair gets gray, i'm goin' to knock off blackin' boots, and go into some light, genteel employment, such as keepin' an apple-stand, or disseminatin' pea-nuts among the people. "i've got so as to read pretty well, so my tooter says. i've been studyin' geography and grammar also. i've made such astonishin' progress that i can tell a noun from a conjunction as far away as i can see 'em. tell mr. munroe that if he wants an accomplished teacher in his school, he can send for me, and i'll come on by the very next train. or, if he wants to sell out for a hundred dollars, i'll buy the whole concern, and agree to teach the scholars all i know myself in less than six months. is teachin' as good business, generally speakin', as blackin' boots? my private tooter combines both, and is makin' a fortun' with great rapidity. he'll be as rich as astor some time, _if he only lives long enough._ "i should think you'd have a bully time at your school. i should like to go out in the boat, or play ball with you. when are you comin' to the city? i wish you'd write and let me know when you do, and i'll call and see you. i'll leave my business in the hands of my numerous clerks, and go round with you. there's lots of things you didn't see when you was here before. they're getting on fast at the central park. it looks better than it did a year ago. "i aint much used to writin' letters. as this is the first one i ever wrote, i hope you'll excuse the mistakes. i hope you'll write to me again soon. i can't write so good a letter as you; but, i'll do my best, as the man said when he was asked if he could swim over to brooklyn backwards. good-by, frank. thank you for all your kindness. direct your next letter to no. -- mott street. "your true friend, "dick hunter." when dick had written the last word, he leaned back in his chair, and surveyed the letter with much satisfaction. "i didn't think i could have wrote such a long letter, fosdick," said he. "written would be more grammatical, dick," suggested his friend. "i guess there's plenty of mistakes in it," said dick. "just look at it, and see." fosdick took the letter, and read it over carefully. "yes, there are some mistakes," he said; "but it sounds so much like you that i think it would be better to let it go just as it is. it will be more likely to remind frank of what you were when he first saw you." "is it good enough to send?" asked dick, anxiously. "yes; it seems to me to be quite a good letter. it is written just as you talk. nobody but you could have written such a letter, dick. i think frank will be amused at your proposal to come up there as teacher." "p'r'aps it would be a good idea for us to open a seleck school here in mott street," said dick, humorously. "we could call it 'professor fosdick and hunter's mott street seminary.' boot-blackin' taught by professor hunter." the evening was so far advanced that dick decided to postpone copying his letter till the next evening. by this time he had come to have a very fair handwriting, so that when the letter was complete it really looked quite creditable, and no one would have suspected that it was dick's first attempt in this line. our hero surveyed it with no little complacency. in fact, he felt rather proud of it, since it reminded him of the great progress he had made. he carried it down to the post-office, and deposited it with his own hands in the proper box. just on the steps of the building, as he was coming out, he met johnny nolan, who had been sent on an errand to wall street by some gentleman, and was just returning. "what are you doin' down here, dick?" asked johnny. "i've been mailin' a letter." "who sent you?" "nobody." "i mean, who writ the letter?" "i wrote it myself." "can you write letters?" asked johnny, in amazement. "why shouldn't i?" "i didn't know you could write. i can't." "then you ought to learn." "i went to school once; but it was too hard work, so i give it up." "you're lazy, johnny,--that's what's the matter. how'd you ever expect to know anything, if you don't try?" "i can't learn." "you can, if you want to." johnny nolan was evidently of a different opinion. he was a good-natured boy, large of his age, with nothing particularly bad about him, but utterly lacking in that energy, ambition, and natural sharpness, for which dick was distinguished. he was not adapted to succeed in the life which circumstances had forced upon him; for in the street-life of the metropolis a boy needs to be on the alert, and have all his wits about him, or he will find himself wholly distanced by his more enterprising competitors for popular favor. to succeed in his profession, humble as it is, a boot-black must depend upon the same qualities which gain success in higher walks in life. it was easy to see that johnny, unless very much favored by circumstances, would never rise much above his present level. for dick, we cannot help hoping much better things. chapter xxvi an exciting adventure dick now began to look about for a position in a store or counting-room. until he should obtain one he determined to devote half the day to blacking boots, not being willing to break in upon his small capital. he found that he could earn enough in half a day to pay all his necessary expenses, including the entire rent of the room. fosdick desired to pay his half; but dick steadily refused, insisting upon paying so much as compensation for his friend's services as instructor. it should be added that dick's peculiar way of speaking and use of slang terms had been somewhat modified by his education and his intimacy with henry fosdick. still he continued to indulge in them to some extent, especially when he felt like joking, and it was natural to dick to joke, as my readers have probably found out by this time. still his manners were considerably improved, so that he was more likely to obtain a situation than when first introduced to our notice. just now, however, business was very dull, and merchants, instead of hiring new assistants, were disposed to part with those already in their employ. after making several ineffectual applications, dick began to think he should be obliged to stick to his profession until the next season. but about this time something occurred which considerably improved his chances of preferment. this is the way it happened. as dick, with a balance of more than a hundred dollars in the savings bank, might fairly consider himself a young man of property, he thought himself justified in occasionally taking a half holiday from business, and going on an excursion. on wednesday afternoon henry fosdick was sent by his employer on an errand to that part of brooklyn near greenwood cemetery. dick hastily dressed himself in his best, and determined to accompany him. the two boys walked down to the south ferry, and, paying their two cents each, entered the ferry boat. they remained at the stern, and stood by the railing, watching the great city, with its crowded wharves, receding from view. beside them was a gentleman with two children,--a girl of eight and a little boy of six. the children were talking gayly to their father. while he was pointing out some object of interest to the little girl, the boy managed to creep, unobserved, beneath the chain that extends across the boat, for the protection of passengers, and, stepping incautiously to the edge of the boat, fell over into the foaming water. at the child's scream, the father looked up, and, with a cry of horror, sprang to the edge of the boat. he would have plunged in, but, being unable to swim, would only have endangered his own life, without being able to save his child. "my child!" he exclaimed in anguish,--"who will save my child? a thousand--ten thousand dollars to any one who will save him!" there chanced to be but few passengers on board at the time, and nearly all these were either in the cabins or standing forward. among the few who saw the child fall was our hero. now dick was an expert swimmer. it was an accomplishment which he had possessed for years, and he no sooner saw the boy fall than he resolved to rescue him. his determination was formed before he heard the liberal offer made by the boy's father. indeed, i must do dick the justice to say that, in the excitement of the moment, he did not hear it at all, nor would it have stimulated the alacrity with which he sprang to the rescue of the little boy. little johnny had already risen once, and gone under for the second time, when our hero plunged in. he was obliged to strike out for the boy, and this took time. he reached him none too soon. just as he was sinking for the third and last time, he caught him by the jacket. dick was stout and strong, but johnny clung to him so tightly, that it was with great difficulty he was able to sustain himself. "put your arms round my neck," said dick. the little boy mechanically obeyed, and clung with a grasp strengthened by his terror. in this position dick could bear his weight better. but the ferry-boat was receding fast. it was quite impossible to reach it. the father, his face pale with terror and anguish, and his hands clasped in suspense, saw the brave boy's struggles, and prayed with agonizing fervor that he might be successful. but it is probable, for they were now midway of the river, that both dick and the little boy whom he had bravely undertaken to rescue would have been drowned, had not a row-boat been fortunately near. the two men who were in it witnessed the accident, and hastened to the rescue of our hero. "keep up a little longer," they shouted, bending to their oars, "and we will save you." dick heard the shout, and it put fresh strength into him. he battled manfully with the treacherous sea, his eyes fixed longingly upon the approaching boat. "hold on tight, little boy," he said. "there's a boat coming." the little boy did not see the boat. his eyes were closed to shut out the fearful water, but he clung the closer to his young preserver. six long, steady strokes, and the boat dashed along side. strong hands seized dick and his youthful burden, and drew them into the boat, both dripping with water. "god be thanked!" exclaimed the father, as from the steamer he saw the child's rescue. "that brave boy shall be rewarded, if i sacrifice my whole fortune to compass it." "you've had a pretty narrow escape, young chap," said one of the boatmen to dick. "it was a pretty tough job you undertook." "yes," said dick. "that's what i thought when i was in the water. if it hadn't been for you, i don't know what would have 'come of us." "anyhow you're a plucky boy, or you wouldn't have dared to jump into the water after this little chap. it was a risky thing to do." "i'm used to the water," said dick, modestly. "i didn't stop to think of the danger, but i wasn't going to see that little fellow drown without tryin' to save him." the boat at once headed for the ferry wharf on the brooklyn side. the captain of the ferry-boat, seeing the rescue, did not think it necessary to stop his boat, but kept on his way. the whole occurrence took place in less time than i have occupied in telling it. the father was waiting on the wharf to receive his little boy, with what feelings of gratitude and joy can be easily understood. with a burst of happy tears he clasped him to his arms. dick was about to withdraw modestly, but the gentleman perceived the movement, and, putting down the child, came forward, and, clasping his hand, said with emotion, "my brave boy, i owe you a debt i can never repay. but for your timely service i should now be plunged into an anguish which i cannot think of without a shudder." our hero was ready enough to speak on most occasions, but always felt awkward when he was praised. "it wasn't any trouble," he said, modestly. "i can swim like a top." "but not many boys would have risked their lives for a stranger," said the gentleman. "but," he added with a sudden thought, as his glance rested on dick's dripping garments, "both you and my little boy will take cold in wet clothes. fortunately i have a friend living close at hand, at whose house you will have an opportunity of taking off your clothes, and having them dried." dick protested that he never took cold; but fosdick, who had now joined them, and who, it is needless to say, had been greatly alarmed at dick's danger, joined in urging compliance with the gentleman's proposal, and in the end our hero had to yield. his new friend secured a hack, the driver of which agreed for extra recompense to receive the dripping boys into his carriage, and they were whirled rapidly to a pleasant house in a side street, where matters were quickly explained, and both boys were put to bed. "i aint used to goin' to bed quite so early," thought dick. "this is the queerest excursion i ever took." like most active boys dick did not enjoy the prospect of spending half a day in bed; but his confinement did not last as long as he anticipated. in about an hour the door of his chamber was opened, and a servant appeared, bringing a new and handsome suit of clothes throughout. "you are to put on these," said the servant to dick; "but you needn't get up till you feel like it." "whose clothes are they?" asked dick. "they are yours." "mine! where did they come from?" "mr. rockwell sent out and bought them for you. they are the same size as your wet ones." "is he here now?" "no. he bought another suit for the little boy, and has gone back to new york. here's a note he asked me to give you." dick opened the paper, and read as follows,-- "please accept this outfit of clothes as the first instalment of a debt which i can never repay. i have asked to have your wet suit dried, when you can reclaim it. will you oblige me by calling to-morrow at my counting room, no. --, pearl street. "your friend, "james rockwell." chapter xxvii conclusion when dick was dressed in his new suit, he surveyed his figure with pardonable complacency. it was the best he had ever worn, and fitted him as well as if it had been made expressly for him. "he's done the handsome thing," said dick to himself; "but there wasn't no 'casion for his givin' me these clothes. my lucky stars are shinin' pretty bright now. jumpin' into the water pays better than shinin' boots; but i don't think i'd like to try it more'n once a week." about eleven o'clock the next morning dick repaired to mr. rockwell's counting-room on pearl street. he found himself in front of a large and handsome warehouse. the counting-room was on the lower floor. our hero entered, and found mr. rockwell sitting at a desk. no sooner did that gentleman see him than he arose, and, advancing, shook dick by the hand in the most friendly manner. "my young friend," he said, "you have done me so great service that i wish to be of some service to you in return. tell me about yourself, and what plans or wishes you have formed for the future." dick frankly related his past history, and told mr. rockwell of his desire to get into a store or counting-room, and of the failure of all his applications thus far. the merchant listened attentively to dick's statement, and, when he had finished, placed a sheet of paper before him, and, handing him a pen, said, "will you write your name on this piece of paper?" dick wrote in a free, bold hand, the name richard hunter. he had very much improved in his penmanship, as has already been mentioned, and now had no cause to be ashamed of it. mr. rockwell surveyed it approvingly. "how would you like to enter my counting-room as clerk, richard?" he asked. dick was about to say "bully," when he recollected himself, and answered, "very much." "i suppose you know something of arithmetic, do you not?" "yes, sir." "then you may consider yourself engaged at a salary of ten dollars a week. you may come next monday morning." "ten dollars!" repeated dick, thinking he must have misunderstood. "yes; will that be sufficient?" "it's more than i can earn," said dick, honestly. "perhaps it is at first," said mr. rockwell, smiling; "but i am willing to pay you that. i will besides advance you as fast as your progress will justify it." dick was so elated that he hardly restrained himself from some demonstration which would have astonished the merchant; but he exercised self-control, and only said, "i'll try to serve you so faithfully, sir, that you won't repent having taken me into your service." "and i think you will succeed," said mr. rockwell, encouragingly. "i will not detain you any longer, for i have some important business to attend to. i shall expect to see you on monday morning." dick left the counting-room, hardly knowing whether he stood on his head or his heels, so overjoyed was he at the sudden change in his fortunes. ten dollars a week was to him a fortune, and three times as much as he had expected to obtain at first. indeed he would have been glad, only the day before, to get a place at three dollars a week. he reflected that with the stock of clothes which he had now on hand, he could save up at least half of it, and even then live better than he had been accustomed to do; so that his little fund in the savings bank, instead of being diminished, would be steadily increasing. then he was to be advanced if he deserved it. it was indeed a bright prospect for a boy who, only a year before, could neither read nor write, and depended for a night's lodging upon the chance hospitality of an alley-way or old wagon. dick's great ambition to "grow up 'spectable" seemed likely to be accomplished after all. "i wish fosdick was as well off as i am," he thought generously. but he determined to help his less fortunate friend, and assist him up the ladder as he advanced himself. when dick entered his room on mott street, he discovered that some one else had been there before him, and two articles of wearing apparel had disappeared. "by gracious!" he exclaimed; "somebody's stole my washington coat and napoleon pants. maybe it's an agent of barnum's, who expects to make a fortun' by exhibitin' the valooable wardrobe of a gentleman of fashion." dick did not shed many tears over his loss, as, in his present circumstances, he never expected to have any further use for the well-worn garments. it may be stated that he afterwards saw them adorning the figure of micky maguire; but whether that estimable young man stole them himself, he never ascertained. as to the loss, dick was rather pleased that it had occurred. it seemed to cut him off from the old vagabond life which he hoped never to resume. henceforward he meant to press onward, and rise as high as possible. although it was yet only noon, dick did not go out again with his brush. he felt that it was time to retire from business. he would leave his share of the public patronage to other boys less fortunate than himself. that evening dick and fosdick had a long conversation. fosdick rejoiced heartily in his friend's success, and on his side had the pleasant news to communicate that his pay had been advanced to six dollars a week. "i think we can afford to leave mott street now," he continued. "this house isn't as neat as it might be, and i shall like to live in a nicer quarter of the city." "all right," said dick. "we'll hunt up a new room to-morrow. i shall have plenty of time, having retired from business. i'll try to get my reg'lar customers to take johnny nolan in my place. that boy hasn't any enterprise. he needs some body to look out for him." "you might give him your box and brush, too, dick." "no," said dick; "i'll give him some new ones, but mine i want to keep, to remind me of the hard times i've had, when i was an ignorant boot-black, and never expected to be anything better." "when, in short, you were 'ragged dick.' you must drop that name, and think of yourself now as"-- "richard hunter, esq.," said our hero, smiling. "a young gentleman on the way to fame and fortune," added fosdick. ------- here ends the story of ragged dick. as fosdick said, he is ragged dick no longer. he has taken a step upward, and is determined to mount still higher. there are fresh adventures in store for him, and for others who have been introduced in these pages. those who have felt interested in his early life will find his history continued in a new volume, forming the second of the series, to be called,-- fame and fortune; or, the progress of richard hunter. 	 	 	 	 	 	 the prince and the pauper 	 	 by mark twain 	 	 part . 	 	 	 	hugh latimer	 bishop of worcester	 to lord cromwell	 on the birth of the 	prince of wales (afterward edward vi.). 	 	from the national manuscripts preserved by the british government. 	 	ryght honorable	 salutem in christo jesu	 and syr here ys no lesse joynge 	and rejossynge in thes partees for the byrth of our prynce	 hoom we 	hungurde for so longe	 then ther was (i trow)	 inter vicinos att the 	byrth of s. j. baptyste	 as thys berer	 master erance	 can telle you. 	gode gyffe us alle grace	 to yelde dew thankes to our lorde gode	 gode of 	inglonde	 for verely he hathe shoyd hym selff gode of inglonde	 or rather 	an inglyssh gode	 yf we consydyr and pondyr welle alle hys procedynges 	with us from tyme to tyme. he hath over cumme alle our yllnesse with hys 	excedynge goodnesse	 so that we are now moor then compellyd to serve hym	 	seke hys glory	 promott hys wurde	 yf the devylle of alle devylles be 	natt in us. we have now the stooppe of vayne trustes ande the stey of 	vayne expectations; lett us alle pray for hys preservatione. ande i for 	my partt wylle wyssh that hys grace allways have	 and evyn now from the 	begynynge	 governares	 instructores and offyceres of ryght jugmente	 ne 	optimum ingenium non optima educatione deprevetur. 	 	butt whatt a grett fowlle am i! so	 whatt devotione shoyth many tymys 	butt lytelle dyscretione! ande thus the gode of inglonde be ever with 	you in alle your procedynges. 	 	the of october. 	 	youres	 h. l. b. of wurcestere	 now att hartlebury. 	 	yf you wolde excytt thys berere to be moore hartye ayen the abuse of 	ymagry or mor forwarde to promotte the veryte	 ytt myght doo goode. natt 	that ytt came of me	 butt of your selffe	 etc. 	 	(addressed) to the ryght honorable loorde p. sealle hys synguler gode 	lorde. 	 	 	 	to those good-mannered and agreeable children susie and clara clemens 	this book is affectionately inscribed by their father. 	 	 	 	i will set down a tale as it was told to me by one who had it of his 	father	 which latter had it of his father	 this last having in like 	manner had it of his father--and so on	 back and still back	 three 	hundred years and more	 the fathers transmitting it to the sons and so 	preserving it. it may be history	 it may be only a legend	 a tradition. 	it may have happened	 it may not have happened: but it could have 	happened. it may be that the wise and the learned believed it in the old 	days; it may be that only the unlearned and the simple loved it and 	credited it. 	 	 	 	 	contents. 	 	i. the birth of the prince and the pauper. 	ii. tom's early life. 	iii. tom's meeting with the prince. 	iv. the prince's troubles begin. 	v. tom as a patrician. 	vi. tom receives instructions. 	vii. tom's first royal dinner. 	viii. the question of the seal. 	ix. the river pageant. 	x. the prince in the toils. 	xi. at guildhall. 	xii. the prince and his deliverer. 	xiii. the disappearance of the prince. 	xiv. 'le roi est mort--vive le roi.' 	xv. tom as king. 	xvi. the state dinner. 	xvii. foo-foo the first. 	xviii. the prince with the tramps. 	xix. the prince with the peasants. 	xx. the prince and the hermit. 	xxi. hendon to the rescue. 	xxii. a victim of treachery. 	xxiii. the prince a prisoner. 	xxiv. the escape. 	xxv. hendon hall. 	xxvi. disowned. 	xxvii. in prison. 	xxviii. the sacrifice. 	xxix. to london. 	xxx. tom's progress. 	xxxi. the recognition procession. 	xxxii. coronation day. 	xxxiii. edward as king. 	conclusion. justice and retribution. 	notes. 	 	 	 	 'the quality of mercy . . . is twice bless'd; 	 it blesseth him that gives	 and him that takes; 	 'tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes 	 the thron-ed monarch better than his crown'. 	 merchant of venice. 	 	 	 	 	chapter i. the birth of the prince and the pauper. 	 	in the ancient city of london	 on a certain autumn day in the second 	quarter of the sixteenth century	 a boy was born to a poor family of the 	name of canty	 who did not want him. on the same day another english 	child was born to a rich family of the name of tudor	 who did want him. 	all england wanted him too. england had so longed for him	 and hoped for 	him	 and prayed god for him	 that	 now that he was really come	 the 	people went nearly mad for joy. mere acquaintances hugged and kissed 	each other and cried. everybody took a holiday	 and high and low	 rich 	and poor	 feasted and danced and sang	 and got very mellow; and they kept 	this up for days and nights together. by day	 london was a sight to see	 	with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop	 and splendid 	pageants marching along. by night	 it was again a sight to see	 with its 	great bonfires at every corner	 and its troops of revellers making merry 	around them. there was no talk in all england but of the new baby	 	edward tudor	 prince of wales	 who lay lapped in silks and satins	 	unconscious of all this fuss	 and not knowing that great lords and ladies 	were tending him and watching over him--and not caring	 either. but 	there was no talk about the other baby	 tom canty	 lapped in his poor 	rags	 except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to trouble 	with his presence. 	 	 	 	chapter ii. tom's early life. 	 	let us skip a number of years. 	 	london was fifteen hundred years old	 and was a great town--for that day. 	it had a hundred thousand inhabitants--some think double as many. the 	streets were very narrow	 and crooked	 and dirty	 especially in the part 	where tom canty lived	 which was not far from london bridge. the houses 	were of wood	 with the second story projecting over the first	 and the 	third sticking its elbows out beyond the second. the higher the houses 	grew	 the broader they grew. they were skeletons of strong criss-cross 	beams	 with solid material between	 coated with plaster. the beams were 	painted red or blue or black	 according to the owner's taste	 and this 	gave the houses a very picturesque look. the windows were small	 glazed 	with little diamond-shaped panes	 and they opened outward	 on hinges	 	like doors. 	 	the house which tom's father lived in was up a foul little pocket called 	offal court	 out of pudding lane. it was small	 decayed	 and rickety	 	but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families. canty's tribe 	occupied a room on the third floor. the mother and father had a sort of 	bedstead in the corner; but tom	 his grandmother	 and his two sisters	 	bet and nan	 were not restricted--they had all the floor to themselves	 	and might sleep where they chose. there were the remains of a blanket or 	two	 and some bundles of ancient and dirty straw	 but these could not 	rightly be called beds	 for they were not organised; they were kicked 	into a general pile	 mornings	 and selections made from the mass at 	night	 for service. 	 	bet and nan were fifteen years old--twins. they were good-hearted girls	 	unclean	 clothed in rags	 and profoundly ignorant. their mother was like 	them. but the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends. they 	got drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody 	else who came in the way; they cursed and swore always	 drunk or sober; 	john canty was a thief	 and his mother a beggar. they made beggars of 	the children	 but failed to make thieves of them. among	 but not of	 the 	dreadful rabble that inhabited the house	 was a good old priest whom the 	king had turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings	 	and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways secretly. 	father andrew also taught tom a little latin	 and how to read and write; 	and would have done the same with the girls	 but they were afraid of the 	jeers of their friends	 who could not have endured such a queer 	accomplishment in them. 	 	all offal court was just such another hive as canty's house. drunkenness	 	riot and brawling were the order	 there	 every night and nearly all night 	long. broken heads were as common as hunger in that place. yet little 	tom was not unhappy. he had a hard time of it	 but did not know it. it 	was the sort of time that all the offal court boys had	 therefore he 	supposed it was the correct and comfortable thing. when he came home 	empty-handed at night	 he knew his father would curse him and thrash him 	first	 and that when he was done the awful grandmother would do it all 	over again and improve on it; and that away in the night his starving 	mother would slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap or crust she 	had been able to save for him by going hungry herself	 notwithstanding 	she was often caught in that sort of treason and soundly beaten for it by 	her husband. 	 	no	 tom's life went along well enough	 especially in summer. he only 	begged just enough to save himself	 for the laws against mendicancy were 	stringent	 and the penalties heavy; so he put in a good deal of his time 	listening to good father andrew's charming old tales and legends about 	giants and fairies	 dwarfs and genii	 and enchanted castles	 and gorgeous 	kings and princes. his head grew to be full of these wonderful things	 	and many a night as he lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw	 	tired	 hungry	 and smarting from a thrashing	 he unleashed his 	imagination and soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings 	to himself of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace. one 	desire came in time to haunt him day and night: it was to see a real 	prince	 with his own eyes. he spoke of it once to some of his offal 	court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that 	he was glad to keep his dream to himself after that. 	 	he often read the priest's old books and got him to explain and enlarge 	upon them. his dreamings and readings worked certain changes in him	 	by-and-by. his dream-people were so fine that he grew to lament his shabby 	clothing and his dirt	 and to wish to be clean and better clad. he went 	on playing in the mud just the same	 and enjoying it	 too; but	 instead 	of splashing around in the thames solely for the fun of it	 he began to 	find an added value in it because of the washings and cleansings it 	afforded. 	 	tom could always find something going on around the maypole in cheapside	 	and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of london had a chance 	to see a military parade when some famous unfortunate was carried 	prisoner to the tower	 by land or boat. one summer's day he saw poor anne 	askew and three men burned at the stake in smithfield	 and heard an 	ex-bishop preach a sermon to them which did not interest him. yes	 tom's 	life was varied and pleasant enough	 on the whole. 	 	by-and-by tom's reading and dreaming about princely life wrought such a 	strong effect upon him that he began to act the prince	 unconsciously. 	his speech and manners became curiously ceremonious and courtly	 to the 	vast admiration and amusement of his intimates. but tom's influence 	among these young people began to grow now	 day by day; and in time he 	came to be looked up to	 by them	 with a sort of wondering awe	 as a 	superior being. he seemed to know so much! and he could do and say such 	marvellous things! and withal	 he was so deep and wise! tom's remarks	 	and tom's performances	 were reported by the boys to their elders; and 	these	 also	 presently began to discuss tom canty	 and to regard him as a 	most gifted and extraordinary creature. full-grown people brought their 	perplexities to tom for solution	 and were often astonished at the wit 	and wisdom of his decisions. in fact he was become a hero to all who 	knew him except his own family--these	 only	 saw nothing in him. 	 	privately	 after a while	 tom organised a royal court! he was the 	prince; his special comrades were guards	 chamberlains	 equerries	 lords 	and ladies in waiting	 and the royal family. daily the mock prince was 	received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by tom from his romantic 	readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom were discussed in 	the royal council	 and daily his mimic highness issued decrees to his 	imaginary armies	 navies	 and viceroyalties. 	 	after which	 he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings	 eat 	his poor crust	 take his customary cuffs and abuse	 and then stretch 	himself upon his handful of foul straw	 and resume his empty grandeurs in 	his dreams. 	 	and still his desire to look just once upon a real prince	 in the flesh	 	grew upon him	 day by day	 and week by week	 until at last it absorbed 	all other desires	 and became the one passion of his life. 	 	one january day	 on his usual begging tour	 he tramped despondently up 	and down the region round about mincing lane and little east cheap	 hour 	after hour	 bare-footed and cold	 looking in at cook-shop windows and 	longing for the dreadful pork-pies and other deadly inventions displayed 	there--for to him these were dainties fit for the angels; that is	 	judging by the smell	 they were--for it had never been his good luck to 	own and eat one. there was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was 	murky; it was a melancholy day. at night tom reached home so wet and 	tired and hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother 	to observe his forlorn condition and not be moved--after their fashion; 	wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed. for 	a long time his pain and hunger	 and the swearing and fighting going on 	in the building	 kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to 	far	 romantic lands	 and he fell asleep in the company of jewelled and 	gilded princelings who live in vast palaces	 and had servants salaaming 	before them or flying to execute their orders. and then	 as usual	 he 	dreamed that he was a princeling himself. 	 	all night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he moved 	among great lords and ladies	 in a blaze of light	 breathing perfumes	 	drinking in delicious music	 and answering the reverent obeisances of the 	glittering throng as it parted to make way for him	 with here a smile	 	and there a nod of his princely head. 	 	and when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness about 	him	 his dream had had its usual effect--it had intensified the 	sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold. then came bitterness	 and 	heart-break	 and tears. 	 	 	 	chapter iii. tom's meeting with the prince. 	 	tom got up hungry	 and sauntered hungry away	 but with his thoughts busy 	with the shadowy splendours of his night's dreams. he wandered here and 	there in the city	 hardly noticing where he was going	 or what was 	happening around him. people jostled him	 and some gave him rough 	speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. by-and-by he found 	himself at temple bar	 the farthest from home he had ever travelled in 	that direction. he stopped and considered a moment	 then fell into his 	imaginings again	 and passed on outside the walls of london. the strand 	had ceased to be a country-road then	 and regarded itself as a street	 	but by a strained construction; for	 though there was a tolerably compact 	row of houses on one side of it	 there were only some scattered great 	buildings on the other	 these being palaces of rich nobles	 with ample 	and beautiful grounds stretching to the river--grounds that are now 	closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone. 	 	tom discovered charing village presently	 and rested himself at the 	beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then 	idled down a quiet	 lovely road	 past the great cardinal's stately 	palace	 toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond--westminster. 	tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry	 the wide-spreading 	wings	 the frowning bastions and turrets	 the huge stone gateway	 with 	its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions	 and 	other the signs and symbols of english royalty. was the desire of his 	soul to be satisfied at last? here	 indeed	 was a king's palace. might 	he not hope to see a prince now--a prince of flesh and blood	 if heaven 	were willing? 	 	at each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue--that is to say	 an 	erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms	 clad from head to heel in 	shining steel armour. at a respectful distance were many country folk	 	and people from the city	 waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that 	might offer. splendid carriages	 with splendid people in them and 	splendid servants outside	 were arriving and departing by several other 	noble gateways that pierced the royal enclosure. 	 	poor little tom	 in his rags	 approached	 and was moving slowly and 	timidly past the sentinels	 with a beating heart and a rising hope	 when 	all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that 	almost made him shout for joy. within was a comely boy	 tanned and brown 	with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises	 whose clothing was all of 	lovely silks and satins	 shining with jewels; at his hip a little 	jewelled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet	 with red heels; 	and on his head a jaunty crimson cap	 with drooping plumes fastened with 	a great sparkling gem. several gorgeous gentlemen stood near--his 	servants	 without a doubt. oh! he was a prince--a prince	 a living 	prince	 a real prince--without the shadow of a question; and the prayer 	of the pauper-boy's heart was answered at last. 	 	tom's breath came quick and short with excitement	 and his eyes grew big 	with wonder and delight. everything gave way in his mind instantly to 	one desire: that was to get close to the prince	 and have a good	 	devouring look at him. before he knew what he was about	 he had his face 	against the gate-bars. the next instant one of the soldiers snatched him 	rudely away	 and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country 	gawks and london idlers. the soldier said	-- 	 	mind thy manners, thou young beggar! 	 	the crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate 	with his face flushed	 and his eyes flashing with indignation	 and cried 	out	-- 	 	how dar'st thou use a poor lad like that? how dar'st thou use the king my father's meanest subject so? open the gates, and let him in! 	 	you should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. you 	should have heard them cheer	 and shout	 "long live the prince of wales!" 	 	the soldiers presented arms with their halberds	 opened the gates	 and 	presented again as the little prince of poverty passed in	 in his 	fluttering rags	 to join hands with the prince of limitless plenty. 	 	edward tudor said-- 	 	thou lookest tired and hungry: thou'st been treated ill. come with me. 	 	half a dozen attendants sprang forward to--i don't know what; interfere	 	no doubt. but they were waved aside with a right royal gesture	 and they 	stopped stock still where they were	 like so many statues. edward took 	tom to a rich apartment in the palace	 which he called his cabinet. by 	his command a repast was brought such as tom had never encountered before 	except in books. the prince	 with princely delicacy and breeding	 sent 	away the servants	 so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by 	their critical presence; then he sat near by	 and asked questions while 	tom ate. 	 	what is thy name, lad? 	 	tom canty, an' it please thee, sir. 	 	'tis an odd one. where dost live? 	 	in the city, please thee, sir. offal court, out of pudding lane. 	 	offal court! truly 'tis another odd one. hast parents? 	 	parents have i, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but indifferently precious to me, god forgive me if it be offence to say it--also twin sisters, nan and bet. 	 	then is thy grand-dam not over kind to thee, i take it? 	 	neither to any other is she, so please your worship. she hath a wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days. 	 	doth she mistreat thee? 	 	there be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings. 	 	a fierce look came into the little prince's eyes	 and he cried out-- 	 	what! beatings? 	 	oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir. 	 "what dost thou make of this?" "ah, good your worship, require me not to answer. it is not meet that one of my degree should utter the thing." "then will _i_ utter it. thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and countenance that i bear. fared we forth naked, there is none could say which was you, and which the prince of wales. and, now that i am clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth i should be able the more nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier--hark ye, is not this a bruise upon your hand?" "yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that the poor man-at-arms--" "peace! it was a shameful thing and a cruel!" cried the little prince, stamping his bare foot. "if the king--stir not a step till i come again! it is a command!" in a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and flying through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot face and glowing eyes. as soon as he reached the great gate, he seized the bars, and tried to shake them, shouting-- "open! unbar the gates!" the soldier that had maltreated tom obeyed promptly; and as the prince burst through the portal, half-smothered with royal wrath, the soldier fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him whirling to the roadway, and said-- "take that, thou beggar's spawn, for what thou got'st me from his highness!" the crowd roared with laughter. the prince picked himself out of the mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting-- "i am the prince of wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt hang for laying thy hand upon me!" the soldier brought his halberd to a present-arms and said mockingly-- "i salute your gracious highness." then angrily--"be off, thou crazy rubbish!" here the jeering crowd closed round the poor little prince, and hustled him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting-- "way for his royal highness! way for the prince of wales!" chapter iv. the prince's troubles begin. after hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself. as long as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced him to be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and they sought amusement elsewhere. he looked about him, now, but could not recognise the locality. he was within the city of london--that was all he knew. he moved on, aimlessly, and in a little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were infrequent. he bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed then where farringdon street now is; rested a few moments, then passed on, and presently came upon a great space with only a few scattered houses in it, and a prodigious church. he recognised this church. scaffoldings were about, everywhere, and swarms of workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate repairs. the prince took heart at once--he felt that his troubles were at an end, now. he said to himself, "it is the ancient grey friars' church, which the king my father hath taken from the monks and given for a home for ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it christ's church. right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done so generously by them--and the more that that son is himself as poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or ever shall be." he was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running, jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting themselves, and right noisily, too. they were all dressed alike, and in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men and 'prentices{ }--that is to say, each had on the crown of his head a flat black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not useful as a covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and hung as low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt; bright yellow stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with large metal buckles. it was a sufficiently ugly costume. the boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said with native dignity-- "good lads, say to your master that edward prince of wales desireth speech with him." a great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said-- "marry, art thou his grace's messenger, beggar?" the prince's face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to his hip, but there was nothing there. there was a storm of laughter, and one boy said-- "didst mark that? he fancied he had a sword--belike he is the prince himself." this sally brought more laughter. poor edward drew himself up proudly and said-- "i am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king my father's bounty to use me so." this was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified. the youth who had first spoken, shouted to his comrades-- "ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace's princely father, where be your manners? down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and do reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!" with boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body and did mock homage to their prey. the prince spurned the nearest boy with his foot, and said fiercely-- "take thou that, till the morrow come and i build thee a gibbet!" ah, but this was not a joke--this was going beyond fun. the laughter ceased on the instant, and fury took its place. a dozen shouted-- "hale him forth! to the horse-pond, to the horse-pond! where be the dogs? ho, there, lion! ho, fangs!" then followed such a thing as england had never seen before--the sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by plebeian hands, and set upon and torn by dogs. as night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far down in the close-built portion of the city. his body was bruised, his hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched with mud. he wandered on and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired and faint he could hardly drag one foot after the other. he had ceased to ask questions of anyone, since they brought him only insult instead of information. he kept muttering to himself, "offal court--that is the name; if i can but find it before my strength is wholly spent and i drop, then am i saved--for his people will take me to the palace and prove that i am none of theirs, but the true prince, and i shall have mine own again." and now and then his mind reverted to his treatment by those rude christ's hospital boys, and he said, "when i am king, they shall not have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart. i will keep this diligently in my remembrance, that this day's lesson be not lost upon me, and my people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and breedeth gentleness and charity." { } the lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose, and a raw and gusty night set in. the houseless prince, the homeless heir to the throne of england, still moved on, drifting deeper into the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and misery were massed together. suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said-- "out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing home, i warrant me! if it be so, an' i do not break all the bones in thy lean body, then am i not john canty, but some other." the prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his profaned shoulder, and eagerly said-- "oh, art his father, truly? sweet heaven grant it be so--then wilt thou fetch him away and restore me!" "his father? i know not what thou mean'st; i but know i am thy father, as thou shalt soon have cause to--" "oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!--i am worn, i am wounded, i can bear no more. take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams. believe me, man, believe me!--i speak no lie, but only the truth!--put forth thy hand and save me! i am indeed the prince of wales!" the man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head and muttered-- "gone stark mad as any tom o' bedlam!"--then collared him once more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, "but mad or no mad, i and thy gammer canty will soon find where the soft places in thy bones lie, or i'm no true man!" with this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy swarm of human vermin. the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter viii. the question of the seal. about five o'clock henry viii. awoke out of an unrefreshing nap, and muttered to himself, "troublous dreams, troublous dreams! mine end is now at hand: so say these warnings, and my failing pulses do confirm it." presently a wicked light flamed up in his eye, and he muttered, "yet will not i die till he go before." his attendants perceiving that he was awake, one of them asked his pleasure concerning the lord chancellor, who was waiting without. "admit him, admit him!" exclaimed the king eagerly. the lord chancellor entered, and knelt by the king's couch, saying-- "i have given order, and, according to the king's command, the peers of the realm, in their robes, do now stand at the bar of the house, where, having confirmed the duke of norfolk's doom, they humbly wait his majesty's further pleasure in the matter." the king's face lit up with a fierce joy. said he-- "lift me up! in mine own person will i go before my parliament, and with mine own hand will i seal the warrant that rids me of--" his voice failed; an ashen pallor swept the flush from his cheeks; and the attendants eased him back upon his pillows, and hurriedly assisted him with restoratives. presently he said sorrowfully-- "alack, how have i longed for this sweet hour! and lo, too late it cometh, and i am robbed of this so coveted chance. but speed ye, speed ye! let others do this happy office sith 'tis denied to me. i put my great seal in commission: choose thou the lords that shall compose it, and get ye to your work. speed ye, man! before the sun shall rise and set again, bring me his head that i may see it." "according to the king's command, so shall it be. will't please your majesty to order that the seal be now restored to me, so that i may forth upon the business?" "the seal? who keepeth the seal but thou?" "please your majesty, you did take it from me two days since, saying it should no more do its office till your own royal hand should use it upon the duke of norfolk's warrant." "why, so in sooth i did: i do remember . . . what did i with it?. . . i am very feeble . . . so oft these days doth my memory play the traitor with me . . . 'tis strange, strange--" the king dropped into inarticulate mumblings, shaking his grey head weakly from time to time, and gropingly trying to recollect what he had done with the seal. at last my lord hertford ventured to kneel and offer information-- "sire, if that i may be so bold, here be several that do remember with me how that you gave the great seal into the hands of his highness the prince of wales to keep against the day that--" "true, most true!" interrupted the king. "fetch it! go: time flieth!" lord hertford flew to tom, but returned to the king before very long, troubled and empty-handed. he delivered himself to this effect-- "it grieveth me, my lord the king, to bear so heavy and unwelcome tidings; but it is the will of god that the prince's affliction abideth still, and he cannot recall to mind that he received the seal. so came i quickly to report, thinking it were waste of precious time, and little worth withal, that any should attempt to search the long array of chambers and saloons that belong unto his royal high--" a groan from the king interrupted the lord at this point. after a little while his majesty said, with a deep sadness in his tone-- "trouble him no more, poor child. the hand of god lieth heavy upon him, and my heart goeth out in loving compassion for him, and sorrow that i may not bear his burden on mine old trouble-weighted shoulders, and so bring him peace." he closed his eyes, fell to mumbling, and presently was silent. after a time he opened his eyes again, and gazed vacantly around until his glance rested upon the kneeling lord chancellor. instantly his face flushed with wrath-- "what, thou here yet! by the glory of god, an' thou gettest not about that traitor's business, thy mitre shall have holiday the morrow for lack of a head to grace withal!" the trembling chancellor answered-- "good your majesty, i cry you mercy! i but waited for the seal." "man, hast lost thy wits? the small seal which aforetime i was wont to take with me abroad lieth in my treasury. and, since the great seal hath flown away, shall not it suffice? hast lost thy wits? begone! and hark ye--come no more till thou do bring his head." the poor chancellor was not long in removing himself from this dangerous vicinity; nor did the commission waste time in giving the royal assent to the work of the slavish parliament, and appointing the morrow for the beheading of the premier peer of england, the luckless duke of norfolk. { } chapter ix. the river pageant. at nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace was blazing with light. the river itself, as far as the eye could reach citywards, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and with pleasure-barges, all fringed with coloured lanterns, and gently agitated by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and limitless garden of flowers stirred to soft motion by summer winds. the grand terrace of stone steps leading down to the water, spacious enough to mass the army of a german principality upon, was a picture to see, with its ranks of royal halberdiers in polished armour, and its troops of brilliantly costumed servitors flitting up and down, and to and fro, in the hurry of preparation. presently a command was given, and immediately all living creatures vanished from the steps. now the air was heavy with the hush of suspense and expectancy. as far as one's vision could carry, he might see the myriads of people in the boats rise up, and shade their eyes from the glare of lanterns and torches, and gaze toward the palace. a file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps. they were richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were elaborately carved. some of them were decorated with banners and streamers; some with cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with coats-of-arms; others with silken flags that had numberless little silver bells fastened to them, which shook out tiny showers of joyous music whenever the breezes fluttered them; others of yet higher pretensions, since they belonged to nobles in the prince's immediate service, had their sides picturesquely fenced with shields gorgeously emblazoned with armorial bearings. each state barge was towed by a tender. besides the rowers, these tenders carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy helmet and breastplate, and a company of musicians. the advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the great gateway, a troop of halberdiers. 'they were dressed in striped hose of black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides with silver roses, and doublets of murrey and blue cloth, embroidered on the front and back with the three feathers, the prince's blazon, woven in gold. their halberd staves were covered with crimson velvet, fastened with gilt nails, and ornamented with gold tassels. filing off on the right and left, they formed two long lines, extending from the gateway of the palace to the water's edge. a thick rayed cloth or carpet was then unfolded, and laid down between them by attendants in the gold-and-crimson liveries of the prince. this done, a flourish of trumpets resounded from within. a lively prelude arose from the musicians on the water; and two ushers with white wands marched with a slow and stately pace from the portal. they were followed by an officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came another carrying the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city guard, in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves; then the garter king-at-arms, in his tabard; then several knights of the bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their esquires; then the judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then the lord high chancellor of england, in a robe of scarlet, open before, and purfled with minever; then a deputation of aldermen, in their scarlet cloaks; and then the heads of the different civic companies, in their robes of state. now came twelve french gentlemen, in splendid habiliments, consisting of pourpoints of white damask barred with gold, short mantles of crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and carnation coloured hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the steps. they were of the suite of the french ambassador, and were followed by twelve cavaliers of the suite of the spanish ambassador, clothed in black velvet, unrelieved by any ornament. following these came several great english nobles with their attendants.' there was a flourish of trumpets within; and the prince's uncle, the future great duke of somerset, emerged from the gateway, arrayed in a 'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of crimson satin flowered with gold, and ribanded with nets of silver.' he turned, doffed his plumed cap, bent his body in a low reverence, and began to step backward, bowing at each step. a prolonged trumpet-blast followed, and a proclamation, "way for the high and mighty the lord edward, prince of wales!" high aloft on the palace walls a long line of red tongues of flame leapt forth with a thunder-crash; the massed world on the river burst into a mighty roar of welcome; and tom canty, the cause and hero of it all, stepped into view and slightly bowed his princely head. he was 'magnificently habited in a doublet of white satin, with a front-piece of purple cloth-of-tissue, powdered with diamonds, and edged with ermine. over this he wore a mantle of white cloth-of-gold, pounced with the triple-feathered crest, lined with blue satin, set with pearls and precious stones, and fastened with a clasp of brilliants. about his neck hung the order of the garter, and several princely foreign orders;' and wherever light fell upon him jewels responded with a blinding flash. o tom canty, born in a hovel, bred in the gutters of london, familiar with rags and dirt and misery, what a spectacle is this! chapter x. the prince in the toils. we left john canty dragging the rightful prince into offal court, with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels. there was but one person in it who offered a pleading word for the captive, and he was not heeded; he was hardly even heard, so great was the turmoil. the prince continued to struggle for freedom, and to rage against the treatment he was suffering, until john canty lost what little patience was left in him, and raised his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury over the prince's head. the single pleader for the lad sprang to stop the man's arm, and the blow descended upon his own wrist. canty roared out-- "thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? then have thy reward." his cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head: there was a groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd, and the next moment it lay there in the dark alone. the mob pressed on, their enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode. presently the prince found himself in john canty's abode, with the door closed against the outsiders. by the vague light of a tallow candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features of the loathsome den, and also the occupants of it. two frowsy girls and a middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one corner, with the aspect of animals habituated to harsh usage, and expecting and dreading it now. from another corner stole a withered hag with streaming grey hair and malignant eyes. john canty said to this one-- "tarry! there's fine mummeries here. mar them not till thou'st enjoyed them: then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt. stand forth, lad. now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forgot it. name thy name. who art thou?" the insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more, and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face and said-- "'tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak. i tell thee now, as i told thee before, i am edward, prince of wales, and none other." the stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to the floor where she stood, and almost took her breath. she stared at the prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son, that he burst into a roar of laughter. but the effect upon tom canty's mother and sisters was different. their dread of bodily injury gave way at once to distress of a different sort. they ran forward with woe and dismay in their faces, exclaiming-- "oh, poor tom, poor lad!" the mother fell on her knees before the prince, put her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising tears. then she said-- "oh, my poor boy! thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful work at last, and ta'en thy wit away. ah! why did'st thou cleave to it when i so warned thee 'gainst it? thou'st broke thy mother's heart." the prince looked into her face, and said gently-- "thy son is well, and hath not lost his wits, good dame. comfort thee: let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the king my father restore him to thee." "the king thy father! oh, my child! unsay these words that be freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to thee. shake of this gruesome dream. call back thy poor wandering memory. look upon me. am not i thy mother that bore thee, and loveth thee?" the prince shook his head and reluctantly said-- "god knoweth i am loth to grieve thy heart; but truly have i never looked upon thy face before." the woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and, covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heart-broken sobs and wailings. "let the show go on!" shouted canty. "what, nan!--what, bet! mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the prince's presence? upon your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!" he followed this with another horse-laugh. the girls began to plead timidly for their brother; and nan said-- "an thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal his madness: prithee, do." "do, father," said bet; "he is more worn than is his wont. to-morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and come not empty home again." this remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his mind to business. he turned angrily upon the prince, and said-- "the morrow must we pay two pennies to him that owns this hole; two pennies, mark ye--all this money for a half-year's rent, else out of this we go. show what thou'st gathered with thy lazy begging." the prince said-- "offend me not with thy sordid matters. i tell thee again i am the king's son." a sounding blow upon the prince's shoulder from canty's broad palm sent him staggering into goodwife canty's arms, who clasped him to her breast, and sheltered him from a pelting rain of cuffs and slaps by interposing her own person. the frightened girls retreated to their corner; but the grandmother stepped eagerly forward to assist her son. the prince sprang away from mrs. canty, exclaiming-- "thou shalt not suffer for me, madam. let these swine do their will upon me alone." this speech infuriated the swine to such a degree that they set about their work without waste of time. between them they belaboured the boy right soundly, and then gave the girls and their mother a beating for showing sympathy for the victim. "now," said canty, "to bed, all of ye. the entertainment has tired me." the light was put out, and the family retired. as soon as the snorings of the head of the house and his mother showed that they were asleep, the young girls crept to where the prince lay, and covered him tenderly from the cold with straw and rags; and their mother crept to him also, and stroked his hair, and cried over him, whispering broken words of comfort and compassion in his ear the while. she had saved a morsel for him to eat, also; but the boy's pains had swept away all appetite--at least for black and tasteless crusts. he was touched by her brave and costly defence of him, and by her commiseration; and he thanked her in very noble and princely words, and begged her to go to her sleep and try to forget her sorrows. and he added that the king his father would not let her loyal kindness and devotion go unrewarded. this return to his 'madness' broke her heart anew, and she strained him to her breast again and again, and then went back, drowned in tears, to her bed. as she lay thinking and mourning, the suggestion began to creep into her mind that there was an undefinable something about this boy that was lacking in tom canty, mad or sane. she could not describe it, she could not tell just what it was, and yet her sharp mother-instinct seemed to detect it and perceive it. what if the boy were really not her son, after all? oh, absurd! she almost smiled at the idea, spite of her griefs and troubles. no matter, she found that it was an idea that would not 'down,' but persisted in haunting her. it pursued her, it harassed her, it clung to her, and refused to be put away or ignored. at last she perceived that there was not going to be any peace for her until she should devise a test that should prove, clearly and without question, whether this lad was her son or not, and so banish these wearing and worrying doubts. ah, yes, this was plainly the right way out of the difficulty; therefore she set her wits to work at once to contrive that test. but it was an easier thing to propose than to accomplish. she turned over in her mind one promising test after another, but was obliged to relinquish them all--none of them were absolutely sure, absolutely perfect; and an imperfect one could not satisfy her. evidently she was racking her head in vain--it seemed manifest that she must give the matter up. while this depressing thought was passing through her mind, her ear caught the regular breathing of the boy, and she knew he had fallen asleep. and while she listened, the measured breathing was broken by a soft, startled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. this chance occurrence furnished her instantly with a plan worth all her laboured tests combined. she at once set herself feverishly, but noiselessly, to work to relight her candle, muttering to herself, "had i but seen him then, i should have known! since that day, when he was little, that the powder burst in his face, he hath never been startled of a sudden out of his dreams or out of his thinkings, but he hath cast his hand before his eyes, even as he did that day; and not as others would do it, with the palm inward, but always with the palm turned outward--i have seen it a hundred times, and it hath never varied nor ever failed. yes, i shall soon know, now!" by this time she had crept to the slumbering boy's side, with the candle, shaded, in her hand. she bent heedfully and warily over him, scarcely breathing in her suppressed excitement, and suddenly flashed the light in his face and struck the floor by his ear with her knuckles. the sleeper's eyes sprang wide open, and he cast a startled stare about him --but he made no special movement with his hands. the poor woman was smitten almost helpless with surprise and grief; but she contrived to hide her emotions, and to soothe the boy to sleep again; then she crept apart and communed miserably with herself upon the disastrous result of her experiment. she tried to believe that her tom's madness had banished this habitual gesture of his; but she could not do it. "no," she said, "his hands are not mad; they could not unlearn so old a habit in so brief a time. oh, this is a heavy day for me!" still, hope was as stubborn now as doubt had been before; she could not bring herself to accept the verdict of the test; she must try the thing again--the failure must have been only an accident; so she startled the boy out of his sleep a second and a third time, at intervals--with the same result which had marked the first test; then she dragged herself to bed, and fell sorrowfully asleep, saying, "but i cannot give him up--oh no, i cannot, i cannot--he must be my boy!" the poor mother's interruptions having ceased, and the prince's pains having gradually lost their power to disturb him, utter weariness at last sealed his eyes in a profound and restful sleep. hour after hour slipped away, and still he slept like the dead. thus four or five hours passed. then his stupor began to lighten. presently, while half asleep and half awake, he murmured-- "sir william!" after a moment-- "ho, sir william herbert! hie thee hither, and list to the strangest dream that ever . . . sir william! dost hear? man, i did think me changed to a pauper, and . . . ho there! guards! sir william! what! is there no groom of the chamber in waiting? alack! it shall go hard with--" "what aileth thee?" asked a whisper near him. "who art thou calling?" "sir william herbert. who art thou?" "i? who should i be, but thy sister nan? oh, tom, i had forgot! thou'rt mad yet--poor lad, thou'rt mad yet: would i had never woke to know it again! but prithee master thy tongue, lest we be all beaten till we die!" the startled prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from his stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sank back among his foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation-- "alas! it was no dream, then!" in a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had banished were upon him again, and he realised that he was no longer a petted prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon him, but a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den fit only for beasts, and consorting with beggars and thieves. in the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious noises and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away. the next moment there were several sharp raps at the door; john canty ceased from snoring and said-- "who knocketh? what wilt thou?" a voice answered-- "know'st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?" "no. neither know i, nor care." "belike thou'lt change thy note eftsoons. an thou would save thy neck, nothing but flight may stead thee. the man is this moment delivering up the ghost. 'tis the priest, father andrew!" "god-a-mercy!" exclaimed canty. he roused his family, and hoarsely commanded, "up with ye all and fly--or bide where ye are and perish!" scarcely five minutes later the canty household were in the street and flying for their lives. john canty held the prince by the wrist, and hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution in a low voice-- "mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name. i will choose me a new name, speedily, to throw the law's dogs off the scent. mind thy tongue, i tell thee!" he growled these words to the rest of the family-- "if it so chance that we be separated, let each make for london bridge; whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper's shop on the bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come, then will we flee into southwark together." at this moment the party burst suddenly out of darkness into light; and not only into light, but into the midst of a multitude of singing, dancing, and shouting people, massed together on the river frontage. there was a line of bonfires stretching as far as one could see, up and down the thames; london bridge was illuminated; southwark bridge likewise; the entire river was aglow with the flash and sheen of coloured lights; and constant explosions of fireworks filled the skies with an intricate commingling of shooting splendours and a thick rain of dazzling sparks that almost turned night into day; everywhere were crowds of revellers; all london seemed to be at large. john canty delivered himself of a furious curse and commanded a retreat; but it was too late. he and his tribe were swallowed up in that swarming hive of humanity, and hopelessly separated from each other in an instant. we are not considering that the prince was one of his tribe; canty still kept his grip upon him. the prince's heart was beating high with hopes of escape, now. a burly waterman, considerably exalted with liquor, found himself rudely shoved by canty in his efforts to plough through the crowd; he laid his great hand on canty's shoulder and said-- "nay, whither so fast, friend? dost canker thy soul with sordid business when all that be leal men and true make holiday?" "mine affairs are mine own, they concern thee not," answered canty, roughly; "take away thy hand and let me pass." "sith that is thy humour, thou'lt not pass, till thou'st drunk to the prince of wales, i tell thee that," said the waterman, barring the way resolutely. "give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed!" other revellers were interested by this time. they cried out-- "the loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes." so a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one of its handles, and with the other hand bearing up the end of an imaginary napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to canty, who had to grasp the opposite handle with one of his hands and take off the lid with the other, according to ancient custom. { } this left the prince hand-free for a second, of course. he wasted no time, but dived among the forest of legs about him and disappeared. in another moment he could not have been harder to find, under that tossing sea of life, if its billows had been the atlantic's and he a lost sixpence. he very soon realised this fact, and straightway busied himself about his own affairs without further thought of john canty. he quickly realised another thing, too. to wit, that a spurious prince of wales was being feasted by the city in his stead. he easily concluded that the pauper lad, tom canty, had deliberately taken advantage of his stupendous opportunity and become a usurper. therefore there was but one course to pursue--find his way to the guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor. he also made up his mind that tom should be allowed a reasonable time for spiritual preparation, and then be hanged, drawn and quartered, according to the law and usage of the day in cases of high treason. chapter xi. at guildhall. the royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its stately way down the thames through the wilderness of illuminated boats. the air was laden with music; the river banks were beruffled with joy-flames; the distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from its countless invisible bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire into the sky, incrusted with sparkling lights, wherefore in their remoteness they seemed like jewelled lances thrust aloft; as the fleet swept along, it was greeted from the banks with a continuous hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and boom of artillery. to tom canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and this spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing. to his little friends at his side, the princess elizabeth and the lady jane grey, they were nothing. arrived at the dowgate, the fleet was towed up the limpid walbrook (whose channel has now been for two centuries buried out of sight under acres of buildings) to bucklersbury, past houses and under bridges populous with merry-makers and brilliantly lighted, and at last came to a halt in a basin where now is barge yard, in the centre of the ancient city of london. tom disembarked, and he and his gallant procession crossed cheapside and made a short march through the old jewry and basinghall street to the guildhall. tom and his little ladies were received with due ceremony by the lord mayor and the fathers of the city, in their gold chains and scarlet robes of state, and conducted to a rich canopy of state at the head of the great hall, preceded by heralds making proclamation, and by the mace and the city sword. the lords and ladies who were to attend upon tom and his two small friends took their places behind their chairs. at a lower table the court grandees and other guests of noble degree were seated, with the magnates of the city; the commoners took places at a multitude of tables on the main floor of the hall. from their lofty vantage-ground the giants gog and magog, the ancient guardians of the city, contemplated the spectacle below them with eyes grown familiar to it in forgotten generations. there was a bugle-blast and a proclamation, and a fat butler appeared in a high perch in the leftward wall, followed by his servitors bearing with impressive solemnity a royal baron of beef, smoking hot and ready for the knife. after grace, tom (being instructed) rose--and the whole house with him --and drank from a portly golden loving-cup with the princess elizabeth; from her it passed to the lady jane, and then traversed the general assemblage. so the banquet began. by midnight the revelry was at its height. now came one of those picturesque spectacles so admired in that old day. a description of it is still extant in the quaint wording of a chronicler who witnessed it: 'space being made, presently entered a baron and an earl appareled after the turkish fashion in long robes of bawdkin powdered with gold; hats on their heads of crimson velvet, with great rolls of gold, girded with two swords, called scimitars, hanging by great bawdricks of gold. next came yet another baron and another earl, in two long gowns of yellow satin, traversed with white satin, and in every bend of white was a bend of crimson satin, after the fashion of russia, with furred hats of gray on their heads; either of them having an hatchet in their hands, and boots with pykes' (points a foot long), 'turned up. and after them came a knight, then the lord high admiral, and with him five nobles, in doublets of crimson velvet, voyded low on the back and before to the cannell-bone, laced on the breasts with chains of silver; and over that, short cloaks of crimson satin, and on their heads hats after the dancers' fashion, with pheasants' feathers in them. these were appareled after the fashion of prussia. the torchbearers, which were about an hundred, were appareled in crimson satin and green, like moors, their faces black. next came in a mommarye. then the minstrels, which were disguised, danced; and the lords and ladies did wildly dance also, that it was a pleasure to behold.' and while tom, in his high seat, was gazing upon this 'wild' dancing, lost in admiration of the dazzling commingling of kaleidoscopic colours which the whirling turmoil of gaudy figures below him presented, the ragged but real little prince of wales was proclaiming his rights and his wrongs, denouncing the impostor, and clamouring for admission at the gates of guildhall! the crowd enjoyed this episode prodigiously, and pressed forward and craned their necks to see the small rioter. presently they began to taunt him and mock at him, purposely to goad him into a higher and still more entertaining fury. tears of mortification sprang to his eyes, but he stood his ground and defied the mob right royally. other taunts followed, added mockings stung him, and he exclaimed-- "i tell ye again, you pack of unmannerly curs, i am the prince of wales! and all forlorn and friendless as i be, with none to give me word of grace or help me in my need, yet will not i be driven from my ground, but will maintain it!" "though thou be prince or no prince, 'tis all one, thou be'st a gallant lad, and not friendless neither! here stand i by thy side to prove it; and mind i tell thee thou might'st have a worser friend than miles hendon and yet not tire thy legs with seeking. rest thy small jaw, my child; i talk the language of these base kennel-rats like to a very native." the speaker was a sort of don caesar de bazan in dress, aspect, and bearing. he was tall, trim-built, muscular. his doublet and trunks were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the camp. the speech of this fantastic figure was received with an explosion of jeers and laughter. some cried, "'tis another prince in disguise!" "'ware thy tongue, friend: belike he is dangerous!" "marry, he looketh it--mark his eye!" "pluck the lad from him--to the horse-pond wi' the cub!" instantly a hand was laid upon the prince, under the impulse of this happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out and the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat of it. the next moment a score of voices shouted, "kill the dog! kill him! kill him!" and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed himself against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon like a madman. his victims sprawled this way and that, but the mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against the champion with undiminished fury. his moments seemed numbered, his destruction certain, when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a voice shouted, "way for the king's messenger!" and a troop of horsemen came charging down upon the mob, who fled out of harm's reach as fast as their legs could carry them. the bold stranger caught up the prince in his arms, and was soon far away from danger and the multitude. return we within the guildhall. suddenly, high above the jubilant roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a bugle-note. there was instant silence--a deep hush; then a single voice rose--that of the messenger from the palace--and began to pipe forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing listening. the closing words, solemnly pronounced, were-- "the king is dead!" the great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with one accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments; then all sank upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands toward tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the building-- "long live the king!" poor tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling princesses beside him, a moment, then upon the earl of hertford. a sudden purpose dawned in his face. he said, in a low tone, at lord hertford's ear-- "answer me truly, on thy faith and honour! uttered i here a command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none rise up to say me nay?" "none, my liege, in all these realms. in thy person bides the majesty of england. thou art the king--thy word is law." tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great animation-- "then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and never more be law of blood! up from thy knees and away! to the tower, and say the king decrees the duke of norfolk shall not die!" { } the words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far and wide over the hall, and as hertford hurried from the presence, another prodigious shout burst forth-- "the reign of blood is ended! long live edward, king of england!" the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter v. tom as a patrician. tom canty, left alone in the prince's cabinet, made good use of his opportunity. he turned himself this way and that before the great mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the prince's high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the glass. next he drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the blade, and laying it across his breast, as he had seen a noble knight do, by way of salute to the lieutenant of the tower, five or six weeks before, when delivering the great lords of norfolk and surrey into his hands for captivity. tom played with the jewelled dagger that hung upon his thigh; he examined the costly and exquisite ornaments of the room; he tried each of the sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the offal court herd could only peep in and see him in his grandeur. he wondered if they would believe the marvellous tale he should tell when he got home, or if they would shake their heads, and say his overtaxed imagination had at last upset his reason. at the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the prince was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel lonely; very soon he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to toy with the pretty things about him; he grew uneasy, then restless, then distressed. suppose some one should come, and catch him in the prince's clothes, and the prince not there to explain. might they not hang him at once, and inquire into his case afterward? he had heard that the great were prompt about small matters. his fear rose higher and higher; and trembling he softly opened the door to the antechamber, resolved to fly and seek the prince, and, through him, protection and release. six gorgeous gentlemen-servants and two young pages of high degree, clothed like butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low before him. he stepped quickly back and shut the door. he said-- "oh, they mock at me! they will go and tell. oh! why came i here to cast away my life?" he walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears, listening, starting at every trifling sound. presently the door swung open, and a silken page said-- "the lady jane grey." the door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded toward him. but she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voice-- "oh, what aileth thee, my lord?" tom's breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer out-- "ah, be merciful, thou! in sooth i am no lord, but only poor tom canty of offal court in the city. prithee let me see the prince, and he will of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt. oh, be thou merciful, and save me!" by this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his eyes and uplifted hands as well as with his tongue. the young girl seemed horror-stricken. she cried out-- "o my lord, on thy knees?--and to me!" then she fled away in fright; and tom, smitten with despair, sank down, murmuring-- "there is no help, there is no hope. now will they come and take me." whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were speeding through the palace. the whisper--for it was whispered always--flew from menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, from story to story, from saloon to saloon, "the prince hath gone mad, the prince hath gone mad!" soon every saloon, every marble hall, had its groups of glittering lords and ladies, and other groups of dazzling lesser folk, talking earnestly together in whispers, and every face had in it dismay. presently a splendid official came marching by these groups, making solemn proclamation-- "in the name of the king! let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. in the name of the king!" the whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been stricken dumb. soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of "the prince! see, the prince comes!" poor tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to bow in return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with bewildered and pathetic eyes. great nobles walked upon each side of him, making him lean upon them, and so steady his steps. behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants. presently tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and heard the door close behind him. around him stood those who had come with him. before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very fat man, with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression. his large head was very grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame, were grey also. his clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly frayed in places. one of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was wrapped in bandages. there was silence now; and there was no head there but was bent in reverence, except this man's. this stern-countenanced invalid was the dread henry viii. he said--and his face grew gentle as he began to speak-- "how now, my lord edward, my prince? hast been minded to cozen me, the good king thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with a sorry jest?" poor tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let him, to the beginning of this speech; but when the words 'me, the good king' fell upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as instantly upon his knees as if a shot had brought him there. lifting up his hands, he exclaimed-- "thou the king? then am i undone indeed!" this speech seemed to stun the king. his eyes wandered from face to face aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him. then he said in a tone of deep disappointment-- "alack, i had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth; but i fear me 'tis not so." he breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle voice, "come to thy father, child: thou art not well." tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the majesty of england, humble and trembling. the king took the frightened face between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted it tenderly. presently he said-- "dost not know thy father, child? break not mine old heart; say thou know'st me. thou dost know me, dost thou not?" "yea: thou art my dread lord the king, whom god preserve!" "true, true--that is well--be comforted, tremble not so; there is none here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. thou art better now; thy ill dream passeth--is't not so? thou wilt not miscall thyself again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?" "i pray thee of thy grace believe me, i did but speak the truth, most dread lord; for i am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born, and 'tis by a sore mischance and accident i am here, albeit i was therein nothing blameful. i am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one little word. oh speak it, sir!" "die? talk not so, sweet prince--peace, peace, to thy troubled heart --thou shalt not die!" tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry-- "god requite thy mercy, o my king, and save thee long to bless thy land!" then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two lords in waiting, and exclaimed, "thou heard'st it! i am not to die: the king hath said it!" there was no movement, save that all bowed with grave respect; but no one spoke. he hesitated, a little confused, then turned timidly toward the king, saying, "i may go now?" "go? surely, if thou desirest. but why not tarry yet a little? whither would'st go?" tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly-- "peradventure i mistook; but i did think me free, and so was i moved to seek again the kennel where i was born and bred to misery, yet which harboureth my mother and my sisters, and so is home to me; whereas these pomps and splendours whereunto i am not used--oh, please you, sir, to let me go!" the king was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face betrayed a growing distress and uneasiness. presently he said, with something of hope in his voice-- "perchance he is but mad upon this one strain, and hath his wits unmarred as toucheth other matter. god send it may be so! we will make trial." then he asked tom a question in latin, and tom answered him lamely in the same tongue. the lords and doctors manifested their gratification also. the king said-- "'twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth that his mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally. how say you, sir?" the physician addressed bowed low, and replied-- "it jumpeth with my own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined aright." the king looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it did from so excellent authority, and continued with good heart-- "now mark ye all: we will try him further." he put a question to tom in french. tom stood silent a moment, embarrassed by having so many eyes centred upon him, then said diffidently-- "i have no knowledge of this tongue, so please your majesty." the king fell back upon his couch. the attendants flew to his assistance; but he put them aside, and said-- "trouble me not--it is nothing but a scurvy faintness. raise me! there, 'tis sufficient. come hither, child; there, rest thy poor troubled head upon thy father's heart, and be at peace. thou'lt soon be well: 'tis but a passing fantasy. fear thou not; thou'lt soon be well." then he turned toward the company: his gentle manner changed, and baleful lightnings began to play from his eyes. he said-- "list ye all! this my son is mad; but it is not permanent. over-study hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement. away with his books and teachers! see ye to it. pleasure him with sports, beguile him in wholesome ways, so that his health come again." he raised himself higher still, and went on with energy, "he is mad; but he is my son, and england's heir; and, mad or sane, still shall he reign! and hear ye further, and proclaim it: whoso speaketh of this his distemper worketh against the peace and order of these realms, and shall to the gallows! . . . give me to drink--i burn: this sorrow sappeth my strength. . . . there, take away the cup. . . . support me. there, that is well. mad, is he? were he a thousand times mad, yet is he prince of wales, and i the king will confirm it. this very morrow shall he be installed in his princely dignity in due and ancient form. take instant order for it, my lord hertford." one of the nobles knelt at the royal couch, and said-- "the king's majesty knoweth that the hereditary great marshal of england lieth attainted in the tower. it were not meet that one attainted--" "peace! insult not mine ears with his hated name. is this man to live for ever? am i to be baulked of my will? is the prince to tarry uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an earl marshal free of treasonable taint to invest him with his honours? no, by the splendour of god! warn my parliament to bring me norfolk's doom before the sun rise again, else shall they answer for it grievously!" { } lord hertford said-- "the king's will is law;" and, rising, returned to his former place. gradually the wrath faded out of the old king's face, and he said-- "kiss me, my prince. there . . . what fearest thou? am i not thy loving father?" "thou art good to me that am unworthy, o mighty and gracious lord: that in truth i know. but--but--it grieveth me to think of him that is to die, and--" "ah, 'tis like thee, 'tis like thee! i know thy heart is still the same, even though thy mind hath suffered hurt, for thou wert ever of a gentle spirit. but this duke standeth between thee and thine honours: i will have another in his stead that shall bring no taint to his great office. comfort thee, my prince: trouble not thy poor head with this matter." "but is it not i that speed him hence, my liege? how long might he not live, but for me?" "take no thought of him, my prince: he is not worthy. kiss me once again, and go to thy trifles and amusements; for my malady distresseth me. i am aweary, and would rest. go with thine uncle hertford and thy people, and come again when my body is refreshed." tom, heavy-hearted, was conducted from the presence, for this last sentence was a death-blow to the hope he had cherished that now he would be set free. once more he heard the buzz of low voices exclaiming, "the prince, the prince comes!" his spirits sank lower and lower as he moved between the glittering files of bowing courtiers; for he recognised that he was indeed a captive now, and might remain for ever shut up in this gilded cage, a forlorn and friendless prince, except god in his mercy take pity on him and set him free. and, turn where he would, he seemed to see floating in the air the severed head and the remembered face of the great duke of norfolk, the eyes fixed on him reproachfully. his old dreams had been so pleasant; but this reality was so dreary! chapter vi. tom receives instructions. tom was conducted to the principal apartment of a noble suite, and made to sit down--a thing which he was loth to do, since there were elderly men and men of high degree about him. he begged them to be seated also, but they only bowed their thanks or murmured them, and remained standing. he would have insisted, but his 'uncle' the earl of hertford whispered in his ear-- "prithee, insist not, my lord; it is not meet that they sit in thy presence." the lord st. john was announced, and after making obeisance to tom, he said-- "i come upon the king's errand, concerning a matter which requireth privacy. will it please your royal highness to dismiss all that attend you here, save my lord the earl of hertford?" observing that tom did not seem to know how to proceed, hertford whispered him to make a sign with his hand, and not trouble himself to speak unless he chose. when the waiting gentlemen had retired, lord st. john said-- "his majesty commandeth, that for due and weighty reasons of state, the prince's grace shall hide his infirmity in all ways that be within his power, till it be passed and he be as he was before. to wit, that he shall deny to none that he is the true prince, and heir to england's greatness; that he shall uphold his princely dignity, and shall receive, without word or sign of protest, that reverence and observance which unto it do appertain of right and ancient usage; that he shall cease to speak to any of that lowly birth and life his malady hath conjured out of the unwholesome imaginings of o'er-wrought fancy; that he shall strive with diligence to bring unto his memory again those faces which he was wont to know--and where he faileth he shall hold his peace, neither betraying by semblance of surprise or other sign that he hath forgot; that upon occasions of state, whensoever any matter shall perplex him as to the thing he should do or the utterance he should make, he shall show nought of unrest to the curious that look on, but take advice in that matter of the lord hertford, or my humble self, which are commanded of the king to be upon this service and close at call, till this commandment be dissolved. thus saith the king's majesty, who sendeth greeting to your royal highness, and prayeth that god will of his mercy quickly heal you and have you now and ever in his holy keeping." the lord st. john made reverence and stood aside. tom replied resignedly-- "the king hath said it. none may palter with the king's command, or fit it to his ease, where it doth chafe, with deft evasions. the king shall be obeyed." lord hertford said-- "touching the king's majesty's ordainment concerning books and such like serious matters, it may peradventure please your highness to ease your time with lightsome entertainment, lest you go wearied to the banquet and suffer harm thereby." tom's face showed inquiring surprise; and a blush followed when he saw lord st. john's eyes bent sorrowfully upon him. his lordship said-- "thy memory still wrongeth thee, and thou hast shown surprise--but suffer it not to trouble thee, for 'tis a matter that will not bide, but depart with thy mending malady. my lord of hertford speaketh of the city's banquet which the king's majesty did promise, some two months flown, your highness should attend. thou recallest it now?" "it grieves me to confess it had indeed escaped me," said tom, in a hesitating voice; and blushed again. at this moment the lady elizabeth and the lady jane grey were announced. the two lords exchanged significant glances, and hertford stepped quickly toward the door. as the young girls passed him, he said in a low voice-- "i pray ye, ladies, seem not to observe his humours, nor show surprise when his memory doth lapse--it will grieve you to note how it doth stick at every trifle." meantime lord st. john was saying in tom's ear-- "please you, sir, keep diligently in mind his majesty's desire. remember all thou canst--seem to remember all else. let them not perceive that thou art much changed from thy wont, for thou knowest how tenderly thy old play-fellows bear thee in their hearts and how 'twould grieve them. art willing, sir, that i remain?--and thine uncle?" tom signified assent with a gesture and a murmured word, for he was already learning, and in his simple heart was resolved to acquit himself as best he might, according to the king's command. in spite of every precaution, the conversation among the young people became a little embarrassing at times. more than once, in truth, tom was near to breaking down and confessing himself unequal to his tremendous part; but the tact of the princess elizabeth saved him, or a word from one or the other of the vigilant lords, thrown in apparently by chance, had the same happy effect. once the little lady jane turned to tom and dismayed him with this question,-- "hast paid thy duty to the queen's majesty to-day, my lord?" tom hesitated, looked distressed, and was about to stammer out something at hazard, when lord st. john took the word and answered for him with the easy grace of a courtier accustomed to encounter delicate difficulties and to be ready for them-- "he hath indeed, madam, and she did greatly hearten him, as touching his majesty's condition; is it not so, your highness?" tom mumbled something that stood for assent, but felt that he was getting upon dangerous ground. somewhat later it was mentioned that tom was to study no more at present, whereupon her little ladyship exclaimed-- "'tis a pity, 'tis a pity! thou wert proceeding bravely. but bide thy time in patience: it will not be for long. thou'lt yet be graced with learning like thy father, and make thy tongue master of as many languages as his, good my prince." "my father!" cried tom, off his guard for the moment. "i trow he cannot speak his own so that any but the swine that kennel in the styes may tell his meaning; and as for learning of any sort soever--" he looked up and encountered a solemn warning in my lord st. john's eyes. he stopped, blushed, then continued low and sadly: "ah, my malady persecuteth me again, and my mind wandereth. i meant the king's grace no irreverence." "we know it, sir," said the princess elizabeth, taking her 'brother's' hand between her two palms, respectfully but caressingly; "trouble not thyself as to that. the fault is none of thine, but thy distemper's." "thou'rt a gentle comforter, sweet lady," said tom, gratefully, "and my heart moveth me to thank thee for't, an' i may be so bold." once the giddy little lady jane fired a simple greek phrase at tom. the princess elizabeth's quick eye saw by the serene blankness of the target's front that the shaft was overshot; so she tranquilly delivered a return volley of sounding greek on tom's behalf, and then straightway changed the talk to other matters. time wore on pleasantly, and likewise smoothly, on the whole. snags and sandbars grew less and less frequent, and tom grew more and more at his ease, seeing that all were so lovingly bent upon helping him and overlooking his mistakes. when it came out that the little ladies were to accompany him to the lord mayor's banquet in the evening, his heart gave a bound of relief and delight, for he felt that he should not be friendless, now, among that multitude of strangers; whereas, an hour earlier, the idea of their going with him would have been an insupportable terror to him. tom's guardian angels, the two lords, had had less comfort in the interview than the other parties to it. they felt much as if they were piloting a great ship through a dangerous channel; they were on the alert constantly, and found their office no child's play. wherefore, at last, when the ladies' visit was drawing to a close and the lord guilford dudley was announced, they not only felt that their charge had been sufficiently taxed for the present, but also that they themselves were not in the best condition to take their ship back and make their anxious voyage all over again. so they respectfully advised tom to excuse himself, which he was very glad to do, although a slight shade of disappointment might have been observed upon my lady jane's face when she heard the splendid stripling denied admittance. there was a pause now, a sort of waiting silence which tom could not understand. he glanced at lord hertford, who gave him a sign--but he failed to understand that also. the ready elizabeth came to the rescue with her usual easy grace. she made reverence and said-- "have we leave of the prince's grace my brother to go?" tom said-- "indeed your ladyships can have whatsoever of me they will, for the asking; yet would i rather give them any other thing that in my poor power lieth, than leave to take the light and blessing of their presence hence. give ye good den, and god be with ye!" then he smiled inwardly at the thought, "'tis not for nought i have dwelt but among princes in my reading, and taught my tongue some slight trick of their broidered and gracious speech withal!" when the illustrious maidens were gone, tom turned wearily to his keepers and said-- "may it please your lordships to grant me leave to go into some corner and rest me?" lord hertford said-- "so please your highness, it is for you to command, it is for us to obey. that thou should'st rest is indeed a needful thing, since thou must journey to the city presently." he touched a bell, and a page appeared, who was ordered to desire the presence of sir william herbert. this gentleman came straightway, and conducted tom to an inner apartment. tom's first movement there was to reach for a cup of water; but a silk-and-velvet servitor seized it, dropped upon one knee, and offered it to him on a golden salver. next the tired captive sat down and was going to take off his buskins, timidly asking leave with his eye, but another silk-and-velvet discomforter went down upon his knees and took the office from him. he made two or three further efforts to help himself, but being promptly forestalled each time, he finally gave up, with a sigh of resignation and a murmured "beshrew me, but i marvel they do not require to breathe for me also!" slippered, and wrapped in a sumptuous robe, he laid himself down at last to rest, but not to sleep, for his head was too full of thoughts and the room too full of people. he could not dismiss the former, so they stayed; he did not know enough to dismiss the latter, so they stayed also, to his vast regret--and theirs. tom's departure had left his two noble guardians alone. they mused a while, with much head-shaking and walking the floor, then lord st. john said-- "plainly, what dost thou think?" "plainly, then, this. the king is near his end; my nephew is mad--mad will mount the throne, and mad remain. god protect england, since she will need it!" "verily it promiseth so, indeed. but . . . have you no misgivings as to . . . as to . . ." the speaker hesitated, and finally stopped. he evidently felt that he was upon delicate ground. lord hertford stopped before him, looked into his face with a clear, frank eye, and said-- "speak on--there is none to hear but me. misgivings as to what?" "i am full loth to word the thing that is in my mind, and thou so near to him in blood, my lord. but craving pardon if i do offend, seemeth it not strange that madness could so change his port and manner?--not but that his port and speech are princely still, but that they differ, in one unweighty trifle or another, from what his custom was aforetime. seemeth it not strange that madness should filch from his memory his father's very lineaments; the customs and observances that are his due from such as be about him; and, leaving him his latin, strip him of his greek and french? my lord, be not offended, but ease my mind of its disquiet and receive my grateful thanks. it haunteth me, his saying he was not the prince, and so--" "peace, my lord, thou utterest treason! hast forgot the king's command? remember i am party to thy crime if i but listen." st. john paled, and hastened to say-- "i was in fault, i do confess it. betray me not, grant me this grace out of thy courtesy, and i will neither think nor speak of this thing more. deal not hardly with me, sir, else am i ruined." "i am content, my lord. so thou offend not again, here or in the ears of others, it shall be as though thou hadst not spoken. but thou need'st not have misgivings. he is my sister's son; are not his voice, his face, his form, familiar to me from his cradle? madness can do all the odd conflicting things thou seest in him, and more. dost not recall how that the old baron marley, being mad, forgot the favour of his own countenance that he had known for sixty years, and held it was another's; nay, even claimed he was the son of mary magdalene, and that his head was made of spanish glass; and, sooth to say, he suffered none to touch it, lest by mischance some heedless hand might shiver it? give thy misgivings easement, good my lord. this is the very prince--i know him well--and soon will be thy king; it may advantage thee to bear this in mind, and more dwell upon it than the other." after some further talk, in which the lord st. john covered up his mistake as well as he could by repeated protests that his faith was thoroughly grounded now, and could not be assailed by doubts again, the lord hertford relieved his fellow-keeper, and sat down to keep watch and ward alone. he was soon deep in meditation, and evidently the longer he thought, the more he was bothered. by-and-by he began to pace the floor and mutter. "tush, he must be the prince! will any he in all the land maintain there can be two, not of one blood and birth, so marvellously twinned? and even were it so, 'twere yet a stranger miracle that chance should cast the one into the other's place. nay, 'tis folly, folly, folly!" presently he said-- "now were he impostor and called himself prince, look you that would be natural; that would be reasonable. but lived ever an impostor yet, who, being called prince by the king, prince by the court, prince by all, denied his dignity and pleaded against his exaltation? no! by the soul of st. swithin, no! this is the true prince, gone mad!" chapter vii. tom's first royal dinner. somewhat after one in the afternoon, tom resignedly underwent the ordeal of being dressed for dinner. he found himself as finely clothed as before, but everything different, everything changed, from his ruff to his stockings. he was presently conducted with much state to a spacious and ornate apartment, where a table was already set for one. its furniture was all of massy gold, and beautified with designs which well-nigh made it priceless, since they were the work of benvenuto. the room was half-filled with noble servitors. a chaplain said grace, and tom was about to fall to, for hunger had long been constitutional with him, but was interrupted by my lord the earl of berkeley, who fastened a napkin about his neck; for the great post of diaperers to the prince of wales was hereditary in this nobleman's family. tom's cupbearer was present, and forestalled all his attempts to help himself to wine. the taster to his highness the prince of wales was there also, prepared to taste any suspicious dish upon requirement, and run the risk of being poisoned. he was only an ornamental appendage at this time, and was seldom called upon to exercise his function; but there had been times, not many generations past, when the office of taster had its perils, and was not a grandeur to be desired. why they did not use a dog or a plumber seems strange; but all the ways of royalty are strange. my lord d'arcy, first groom of the chamber, was there, to do goodness knows what; but there he was--let that suffice. the lord chief butler was there, and stood behind tom's chair, overseeing the solemnities, under command of the lord great steward and the lord head cook, who stood near. tom had three hundred and eighty-four servants beside these; but they were not all in that room, of course, nor the quarter of them; neither was tom aware yet that they existed. all those that were present had been well drilled within the hour to remember that the prince was temporarily out of his head, and to be careful to show no surprise at his vagaries. these 'vagaries' were soon on exhibition before them; but they only moved their compassion and their sorrow, not their mirth. it was a heavy affliction to them to see the beloved prince so stricken. poor tom ate with his fingers mainly; but no one smiled at it, or even seemed to observe it. he inspected his napkin curiously, and with deep interest, for it was of a very dainty and beautiful fabric, then said with simplicity-- "prithee, take it away, lest in mine unheedfulness it be soiled." the hereditary diaperer took it away with reverent manner, and without word or protest of any sort. tom examined the turnips and the lettuce with interest, and asked what they were, and if they were to be eaten; for it was only recently that men had begun to raise these things in england in place of importing them as luxuries from holland. { } his question was answered with grave respect, and no surprise manifested. when he had finished his dessert, he filled his pockets with nuts; but nobody appeared to be aware of it, or disturbed by it. but the next moment he was himself disturbed by it, and showed discomposure; for this was the only service he had been permitted to do with his own hands during the meal, and he did not doubt that he had done a most improper and unprincely thing. at that moment the muscles of his nose began to twitch, and the end of that organ to lift and wrinkle. this continued, and tom began to evince a growing distress. he looked appealingly, first at one and then another of the lords about him, and tears came into his eyes. they sprang forward with dismay in their faces, and begged to know his trouble. tom said with genuine anguish-- "i crave your indulgence: my nose itcheth cruelly. what is the custom and usage in this emergence? prithee, speed, for 'tis but a little time that i can bear it." none smiled; but all were sore perplexed, and looked one to the other in deep tribulation for counsel. but behold, here was a dead wall, and nothing in english history to tell how to get over it. the master of ceremonies was not present: there was no one who felt safe to venture upon this uncharted sea, or risk the attempt to solve this solemn problem. alas! there was no hereditary scratcher. meantime the tears had overflowed their banks, and begun to trickle down tom's cheeks. his twitching nose was pleading more urgently than ever for relief. at last nature broke down the barriers of etiquette: tom lifted up an inward prayer for pardon if he was doing wrong, and brought relief to the burdened hearts of his court by scratching his nose himself. his meal being ended, a lord came and held before him a broad, shallow, golden dish with fragrant rosewater in it, to cleanse his mouth and fingers with; and my lord the hereditary diaperer stood by with a napkin for his use. tom gazed at the dish a puzzled moment or two, then raised it to his lips, and gravely took a draught. then he returned it to the waiting lord, and said-- "nay, it likes me not, my lord: it hath a pretty flavour, but it wanteth strength." this new eccentricity of the prince's ruined mind made all the hearts about him ache; but the sad sight moved none to merriment. tom's next unconscious blunder was to get up and leave the table just when the chaplain had taken his stand behind his chair, and with uplifted hands, and closed, uplifted eyes, was in the act of beginning the blessing. still nobody seemed to perceive that the prince had done a thing unusual. by his own request our small friend was now conducted to his private cabinet, and left there alone to his own devices. hanging upon hooks in the oaken wainscoting were the several pieces of a suit of shining steel armour, covered all over with beautiful designs exquisitely inlaid in gold. this martial panoply belonged to the true prince--a recent present from madam parr the queen. tom put on the greaves, the gauntlets, the plumed helmet, and such other pieces as he could don without assistance, and for a while was minded to call for help and complete the matter, but bethought him of the nuts he had brought away from dinner, and the joy it would be to eat them with no crowd to eye him, and no grand hereditaries to pester him with undesired services; so he restored the pretty things to their several places, and soon was cracking nuts, and feeling almost naturally happy for the first time since god for his sins had made him a prince. when the nuts were all gone, he stumbled upon some inviting books in a closet, among them one about the etiquette of the english court. this was a prize. he lay down upon a sumptuous divan, and proceeded to instruct himself with honest zeal. let us leave him there for the present. the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter xxxii. coronation day. let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in westminster abbey, at four o'clock in the morning of this memorable coronation day. we are not without company; for although it is still night, we find the torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people who are well content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours till the time shall come for them to see what they may not hope to see twice in their lives --the coronation of a king. yes, london and westminster have been astir ever since the warning guns boomed at three o'clock, and already crowds of untitled rich folk who have bought the privilege of trying to find sitting-room in the galleries are flocking in at the entrances reserved for their sort. the hours drag along tediously enough. all stir has ceased for some time, for every gallery has long ago been packed. we may sit, now, and look and think at our leisure. we have glimpses, here and there and yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of portions of many galleries and balconies, wedged full with other people, the other portions of these galleries and balconies being cut off from sight by intervening pillars and architectural projections. we have in view the whole of the great north transept--empty, and waiting for england's privileged ones. we see also the ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs, whereon the throne stands. the throne occupies the centre of the platform, and is raised above it upon an elevation of four steps. within the seat of the throne is enclosed a rough flat rock--the stone of scone--which many generations of scottish kings sat on to be crowned, and so it in time became holy enough to answer a like purpose for english monarchs. both the throne and its footstool are covered with cloth of gold. stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags heavily. but at last the lagging daylight asserts itself, the torches are extinguished, and a mellow radiance suffuses the great spaces. all features of the noble building are distinct now, but soft and dreamy, for the sun is lightly veiled with clouds. at seven o'clock the first break in the drowsy monotony occurs; for on the stroke of this hour the first peeress enters the transept, clothed like solomon for splendour, and is conducted to her appointed place by an official clad in satins and velvets, whilst a duplicate of him gathers up the lady's long train, follows after, and, when the lady is seated, arranges the train across her lap for her. he then places her footstool according to her desire, after which he puts her coronet where it will be convenient to her hand when the time for the simultaneous coroneting of the nobles shall arrive. by this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering stream, and the satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting everywhere, seating them and making them comfortable. the scene is animated enough now. there is stir and life, and shifting colour everywhere. after a time, quiet reigns again; for the peeresses are all come and are all in their places, a solid acre or such a matter, of human flowers, resplendent in variegated colours, and frosted like a milky way with diamonds. there are all ages here: brown, wrinkled, white-haired dowagers who are able to go back, and still back, down the stream of time, and recall the crowning of richard iii. and the troublous days of that old forgotten age; and there are handsome middle-aged dames; and lovely and gracious young matrons; and gentle and beautiful young girls, with beaming eyes and fresh complexions, who may possibly put on their jewelled coronets awkwardly when the great time comes; for the matter will be new to them, and their excitement will be a sore hindrance. still, this may not happen, for the hair of all these ladies has been arranged with a special view to the swift and successful lodging of the crown in its place when the signal comes. we have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown thick with diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvellous spectacle--but now we are about to be astonished in earnest. about nine, the clouds suddenly break away and a shaft of sunshine cleaves the mellow atmosphere, and drifts slowly along the ranks of ladies; and every rank it touches flames into a dazzling splendour of many-coloured fires, and we tingle to our finger-tips with the electric thrill that is shot through us by the surprise and the beauty of the spectacle! presently a special envoy from some distant corner of the orient, marching with the general body of foreign ambassadors, crosses this bar of sunshine, and we catch our breath, the glory that streams and flashes and palpitates about him is so overpowering; for he is crusted from head to heel with gems, and his slightest movement showers a dancing radiance all around him. let us change the tense for convenience. the time drifted along--one hour--two hours--two hours and a half; then the deep booming of artillery told that the king and his grand procession had arrived at last; so the waiting multitude rejoiced. all knew that a further delay must follow, for the king must be prepared and robed for the solemn ceremony; but this delay would be pleasantly occupied by the assembling of the peers of the realm in their stately robes. these were conducted ceremoniously to their seats, and their coronets placed conveniently at hand; and meanwhile the multitude in the galleries were alive with interest, for most of them were beholding for the first time, dukes, earls, and barons, whose names had been historical for five hundred years. when all were finally seated, the spectacle from the galleries and all coigns of vantage was complete; a gorgeous one to look upon and to remember. now the robed and mitred great heads of the church, and their attendants, filed in upon the platform and took their appointed places; these were followed by the lord protector and other great officials, and these again by a steel-clad detachment of the guard. there was a waiting pause; then, at a signal, a triumphant peal of music burst forth, and tom canty, clothed in a long robe of cloth of gold, appeared at a door, and stepped upon the platform. the entire multitude rose, and the ceremony of the recognition ensued. then a noble anthem swept the abbey with its rich waves of sound; and thus heralded and welcomed, tom canty was conducted to the throne. the ancient ceremonies went on, with impressive solemnity, whilst the audience gazed; and as they drew nearer and nearer to completion, tom canty grew pale, and still paler, and a deep and steadily deepening woe and despondency settled down upon his spirits and upon his remorseful heart. at last the final act was at hand. the archbishop of canterbury lifted up the crown of england from its cushion and held it out over the trembling mock-king's head. in the same instant a rainbow-radiance flashed along the spacious transept; for with one impulse every individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and poised it over his or her head--and paused in that attitude. a deep hush pervaded the abbey. at this impressive moment, a startling apparition intruded upon the scene--an apparition observed by none in the absorbed multitude, until it suddenly appeared, moving up the great central aisle. it was a boy, bareheaded, ill shod, and clothed in coarse plebeian garments that were falling to rags. he raised his hand with a solemnity which ill comported with his soiled and sorry aspect, and delivered this note of warning-- "i forbid you to set the crown of england upon that forfeited head. i am the king!" in an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy; but in the same instant tom canty, in his regal vestments, made a swift step forward, and cried out in a ringing voice-- "loose him and forbear! he is the king!" a sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage, and they partly rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one another and at the chief figures in this scene, like persons who wondered whether they were awake and in their senses, or asleep and dreaming. the lord protector was as amazed as the rest, but quickly recovered himself, and exclaimed in a voice of authority-- "mind not his majesty, his malady is upon him again--seize the vagabond!" he would have been obeyed, but the mock-king stamped his foot and cried out-- "on your peril! touch him not, he is the king!" the hands were withheld; a paralysis fell upon the house; no one moved, no one spoke; indeed, no one knew how to act or what to say, in so strange and surprising an emergency. while all minds were struggling to right themselves, the boy still moved steadily forward, with high port and confident mien; he had never halted from the beginning; and while the tangled minds still floundered helplessly, he stepped upon the platform, and the mock-king ran with a glad face to meet him; and fell on his knees before him and said-- "oh, my lord the king, let poor tom canty be first to swear fealty to thee, and say, 'put on thy crown and enter into thine own again!'" the lord protector's eye fell sternly upon the new-comer's face; but straightway the sternness vanished away, and gave place to an expression of wondering surprise. this thing happened also to the other great officers. they glanced at each other, and retreated a step by a common and unconscious impulse. the thought in each mind was the same: "what a strange resemblance!" the lord protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity, then he said, with grave respectfulness-- "by your favour, sir, i desire to ask certain questions which--" "i will answer them, my lord." the duke asked him many questions about the court, the late king, the prince, the princesses--the boy answered them correctly and without hesitating. he described the rooms of state in the palace, the late king's apartments, and those of the prince of wales. it was strange; it was wonderful; yes, it was unaccountable--so all said that heard it. the tide was beginning to turn, and tom canty's hopes to run high, when the lord protector shook his head and said-- "it is true it is most wonderful--but it is no more than our lord the king likewise can do." this remark, and this reference to himself as still the king, saddened tom canty, and he felt his hopes crumbling from under him. "these are not proofs," added the protector. the tide was turning very fast now, very fast indeed--but in the wrong direction; it was leaving poor tom canty stranded on the throne, and sweeping the other out to sea. the lord protector communed with himself --shook his head--the thought forced itself upon him, "it is perilous to the state and to us all, to entertain so fateful a riddle as this; it could divide the nation and undermine the throne." he turned and said-- "sir thomas, arrest this--no, hold!" his face lighted, and he confronted the ragged candidate with this question-- "where lieth the great seal? answer me this truly, and the riddle is unriddled; for only he that was prince of wales can so answer! on so trivial a thing hang a throne and a dynasty!" it was a lucky thought, a happy thought. that it was so considered by the great officials was manifested by the silent applause that shot from eye to eye around their circle in the form of bright approving glances. yes, none but the true prince could dissolve the stubborn mystery of the vanished great seal--this forlorn little impostor had been taught his lesson well, but here his teachings must fail, for his teacher himself could not answer that question--ah, very good, very good indeed; now we shall be rid of this troublesome and perilous business in short order! and so they nodded invisibly and smiled inwardly with satisfaction, and looked to see this foolish lad stricken with a palsy of guilty confusion. how surprised they were, then, to see nothing of the sort happen--how they marvelled to hear him answer up promptly, in a confident and untroubled voice, and say-- "there is nought in this riddle that is difficult." then, without so much as a by-your-leave to anybody, he turned and gave this command, with the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such things: "my lord st. john, go you to my private cabinet in the palace--for none knoweth the place better than you--and, close down to the floor, in the left corner remotest from the door that opens from the ante-chamber, you shall find in the wall a brazen nail-head; press upon it and a little jewel-closet will fly open which not even you do know of--no, nor any soul else in all the world but me and the trusty artisan that did contrive it for me. the first thing that falleth under your eye will be the great seal--fetch it hither." all the company wondered at this speech, and wondered still more to see the little mendicant pick out this peer without hesitancy or apparent fear of mistake, and call him by name with such a placidly convincing air of having known him all his life. the peer was almost surprised into obeying. he even made a movement as if to go, but quickly recovered his tranquil attitude and confessed his blunder with a blush. tom canty turned upon him and said, sharply-- "why dost thou hesitate? hast not heard the king's command? go!" the lord st. john made a deep obeisance--and it was observed that it was a significantly cautious and non-committal one, it not being delivered at either of the kings, but at the neutral ground about half-way between the two--and took his leave. now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official group which was slow, scarcely perceptible, and yet steady and persistent--a movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that is turned slowly, whereby the components of one splendid cluster fall away and join themselves to another--a movement which, little by little, in the present case, dissolved the glittering crowd that stood about tom canty and clustered it together again in the neighbourhood of the new-comer. tom canty stood almost alone. now ensued a brief season of deep suspense and waiting--during which even the few faint hearts still remaining near tom canty gradually scraped together courage enough to glide, one by one, over to the majority. so at last tom canty, in his royal robes and jewels, stood wholly alone and isolated from the world, a conspicuous figure, occupying an eloquent vacancy. now the lord st. john was seen returning. as he advanced up the mid-aisle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of conversation in the great assemblage died out and was succeeded by a profound hush, a breathless stillness, through which his footfalls pulsed with a dull and distant sound. every eye was fastened upon him as he moved along. he reached the platform, paused a moment, then moved toward tom canty with a deep obeisance, and said-- "sire, the seal is not there!" a mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient with more haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers melted away from the presence of the shabby little claimant of the crown. in a moment he stood all alone, without friend or supporter, a target upon which was concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry looks. the lord protector called out fiercely-- "cast the beggar into the street, and scourge him through the town--the paltry knave is worth no more consideration!" officers of the guard sprang forward to obey, but tom canty waved them off and said-- "back! whoso touches him perils his life!" the lord protector was perplexed in the last degree. he said to the lord st. john-- "searched you well?--but it boots not to ask that. it doth seem passing strange. little things, trifles, slip out of one's ken, and one does not think it matter for surprise; but how so bulky a thing as the seal of england can vanish away and no man be able to get track of it again--a massy golden disk--" tom canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted-- "hold, that is enough! was it round?--and thick?--and had it letters and devices graved upon it?--yes? oh, now i know what this great seal is that there's been such worry and pother about. an' ye had described it to me, ye could have had it three weeks ago. right well i know where it lies; but it was not i that put it there--first." "who, then, my liege?" asked the lord protector. "he that stands there--the rightful king of england. and he shall tell you himself where it lies--then you will believe he knew it of his own knowledge. bethink thee, my king--spur thy memory--it was the last, the very last thing thou didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the soldier that insulted me." a silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all eyes were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and corrugated brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude of valueless recollections for one single little elusive fact, which, found, would seat him upon a throne--unfound, would leave him as he was, for good and all--a pauper and an outcast. moment after moment passed--the moments built themselves into minutes--still the boy struggled silently on, and gave no sign. but at last he heaved a sigh, shook his head slowly, and said, with a trembling lip and in a despondent voice-- "i call the scene back--all of it--but the seal hath no place in it." he paused, then looked up, and said with gentle dignity, "my lords and gentlemen, if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his own for lack of this evidence which he is not able to furnish, i may not stay ye, being powerless. but--" "oh, folly, oh, madness, my king!" cried tom canty, in a panic, "wait! --think! do not give up!--the cause is not lost! nor shall be, neither! list to what i say--follow every word--i am going to bring that morning back again, every hap just as it happened. we talked--i told you of my sisters, nan and bet--ah, yes, you remember that; and about mine old grandam--and the rough games of the lads of offal court--yes, you remember these things also; very well, follow me still, you shall recall everything. you gave me food and drink, and did with princely courtesy send away the servants, so that my low breeding might not shame me before them--ah, yes, this also you remember." as tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded his head in recognition of them, the great audience and the officials stared in puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded like true history, yet how could this impossible conjunction between a prince and a beggar-boy have come about? never was a company of people so perplexed, so interested, and so stupefied, before. "for a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments. then we stood before a mirror; and so alike were we that both said it seemed as if there had been no change made--yes, you remember that. then you noticed that the soldier had hurt my hand--look! here it is, i cannot yet even write with it, the fingers are so stiff. at this your highness sprang up, vowing vengeance upon that soldier, and ran towards the door--you passed a table--that thing you call the seal lay on that table--you snatched it up and looked eagerly about, as if for a place to hide it--your eye caught sight of--" "there, 'tis sufficient!--and the good god be thanked!" exclaimed the ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement. "go, my good st. john--in an arm-piece of the milanese armour that hangs on the wall, thou'lt find the seal!" "right, my king! right!" cried tom canty; "now the sceptre of england is thine own; and it were better for him that would dispute it that he had been born dumb! go, my lord st. john, give thy feet wings!" the whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh out of its mind with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming excitement. on the floor and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic conversation burst forth, and for some time nobody knew anything or heard anything or was interested in anything but what his neighbour was shouting into his ear, or he was shouting into his neighbour's ear. time--nobody knew how much of it--swept by unheeded and unnoted. at last a sudden hush fell upon the house, and in the same moment st. john appeared upon the platform, and held the great seal aloft in his hand. then such a shout went up-- "long live the true king!" for five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of musical instruments, and was white with a storm of waving handkerchiefs; and through it all a ragged lad, the most conspicuous figure in england, stood, flushed and happy and proud, in the centre of the spacious platform, with the great vassals of the kingdom kneeling around him. then all rose, and tom canty cried out-- "now, o my king, take these regal garments back, and give poor tom, thy servant, his shreds and remnants again." the lord protector spoke up-- "let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the tower." but the new king, the true king, said-- "i will not have it so. but for him i had not got my crown again--none shall lay a hand upon him to harm him. and as for thee, my good uncle, my lord protector, this conduct of thine is not grateful toward this poor lad, for i hear he hath made thee a duke"--the protector blushed--"yet he was not a king; wherefore what is thy fine title worth now? to-morrow you shall sue to me, through him, for its confirmation, else no duke, but a simple earl, shalt thou remain." under this rebuke, his grace the duke of somerset retired a little from the front for the moment. the king turned to tom, and said kindly--"my poor boy, how was it that you could remember where i hid the seal when i could not remember it myself?" "ah, my king, that was easy, since i used it divers days." "used it--yet could not explain where it was?" "i did not know it was that they wanted. they did not describe it, your majesty." "then how used you it?" the red blood began to steal up into tom's cheeks, and he dropped his eyes and was silent. "speak up, good lad, and fear nothing," said the king. "how used you the great seal of england?" tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out-- "to crack nuts with!" poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this nearly swept him off his feet. but if a doubt remained in any mind that tom canty was not the king of england and familiar with the august appurtenances of royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly. meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from tom's shoulders to the king's, whose rags were effectually hidden from sight under it. then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the true king was anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst cannon thundered the news to the city, and all london seemed to rock with applause. chapter xxxiii. edward as king. miles hendon was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on london bridge--he was more so when he got out of it. he had but little money when he got in, none at all when he got out. the pickpockets had stripped him of his last farthing. but no matter, so he found his boy. being a soldier, he did not go at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange his campaign. what would the boy naturally do? where would he naturally go? well --argued miles--he would naturally go to his former haunts, for that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken, as well as of sound ones. whereabouts were his former haunts? his rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed to know him and who even claimed to be his father, indicated that his home was in one or another of the poorest and meanest districts of london. would the search for him be difficult, or long? no, it was likely to be easy and brief. he would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in the centre of a big crowd or a little one, sooner or later, he should find his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be entertaining itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who would be proclaiming himself king, as usual. then miles hendon would cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never be separated any more. so miles started on his quest. hour after hour he tramped through back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds, and finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy. this greatly surprised him, but did not discourage him. to his notion, there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign; the only miscalculation about it was that the campaign was becoming a lengthy one, whereas he had expected it to be short. when daylight arrived, at last, he had made many a mile, and canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he was tolerably tired, rather hungry and very sleepy. he wanted some breakfast, but there was no way to get it. to beg for it did not occur to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as soon have thought of parting with his honour; he could spare some of his clothes--yes, but one could as easily find a customer for a disease as for such clothes. at noon he was still tramping--among the rabble which followed after the royal procession, now; for he argued that this regal display would attract his little lunatic powerfully. he followed the pageant through all its devious windings about london, and all the way to westminster and the abbey. he drifted here and there amongst the multitudes that were massed in the vicinity for a weary long time, baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off, thinking, and trying to contrive some way to better his plan of campaign. by-and-by, when he came to himself out of his musings, he discovered that the town was far behind him and that the day was growing old. he was near the river, and in the country; it was a region of fine rural seats--not the sort of district to welcome clothes like his. it was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in the lee of a hedge to rest and think. drowsiness presently began to settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon was wafted to his ear, and he said to himself, "the new king is crowned," and straightway fell asleep. he had not slept or rested, before, for more than thirty hours. he did not wake again until near the middle of the next morning. he got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged off toward westminster, grumbling at himself for having wasted so much time. hunger helped him to a new plan, now; he would try to get speech with old sir humphrey marlow and borrow a few marks, and--but that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be time enough to enlarge it when this first stage should be accomplished. toward eleven o'clock he approached the palace; and although a host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction, he was not inconspicuous--his costume took care of that. he watched these people's faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant--as to trying to get into the palace himself, that was simply out of the question. presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and scanned his figure well, saying to himself, "an' that is not the very vagabond his majesty is in such a worry about, then am i an ass--though belike i was that before. he answereth the description to a rag--that god should make two such would be to cheapen miracles by wasteful repetition. i would i could contrive an excuse to speak with him." miles hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then, as a man generally will when somebody mesmerises him by gazing hard at him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy's eyes, he stepped toward him and said-- "you have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?" "yes, your worship." "know you sir humphrey marlow?" the boy started, and said to himself, "lord! mine old departed father!" then he answered aloud, "right well, your worship." "good--is he within?" "yes," said the boy; and added, to himself, "within his grave." "might i crave your favour to carry my name to him, and say i beg to say a word in his ear?" "i will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir." "then say miles hendon, son of sir richard, is here without--i shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad." the boy looked disappointed. "the king did not name him so," he said to himself; "but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother, and can give his majesty news of t'other sir-odds-and-ends, i warrant." so he said to miles, "step in there a moment, good sir, and wait till i bring you word." hendon retired to the place indicated--it was a recess sunk in the palace wall, with a stone bench in it--a shelter for sentinels in bad weather. he had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers, in charge of an officer, passed by. the officer saw him, halted his men, and commanded hendon to come forth. he obeyed, and was promptly arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the precincts of the palace. things began to look ugly. poor miles was going to explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and ordered his men to disarm him and search him. "god of his mercy grant that they find somewhat," said poor miles; "i have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than theirs." nothing was found but a document. the officer tore it open, and hendon smiled when he recognised the 'pot-hooks' made by his lost little friend that black day at hendon hall. the officer's face grew dark as he read the english paragraph, and miles blenched to the opposite colour as he listened. "another new claimant of the crown!" cried the officer. "verily they breed like rabbits, to-day. seize the rascal, men, and see ye keep him fast whilst i convey this precious paper within and send it to the king." he hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the halberdiers. "now is my evil luck ended at last," muttered hendon, "for i shall dangle at a rope's end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of writing. and what will become of my poor lad!--ah, only the good god knoweth." by-and-by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as became a man. the officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner and return his sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said-- "please you, sir, to follow me." hendon followed, saying to himself, "an' i were not travelling to death and judgment, and so must needs economise in sin, i would throttle this knave for his mock courtesy." the two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow, delivered hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who received him with profound respect and led him forward through a great hall, lined on both sides with rows of splendid flunkeys (who made reverential obeisance as the two passed along, but fell into death-throes of silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the moment his back was turned), and up a broad staircase, among flocks of fine folk, and finally conducted him into a vast room, clove a passage for him through the assembled nobility of england, then made a bow, reminded him to take his hat off, and left him standing in the middle of the room, a mark for all eyes, for plenty of indignant frowns, and for a sufficiency of amused and derisive smiles. miles hendon was entirely bewildered. there sat the young king, under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise--a duke, maybe. hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be sentenced to death in the full vigour of life, without having this peculiarly public humiliation added. he wished the king would hurry about it--some of the gaudy people near by were becoming pretty offensive. at this moment the king raised his head slightly, and hendon caught a good view of his face. the sight nearly took his breath away!--he stood gazing at the fair young face like one transfixed; then presently ejaculated-- "lo, the lord of the kingdom of dreams and shadows on his throne!" he muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marvelling; then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous throng and the splendid saloon, murmuring, "but these are real--verily these are real --surely it is not a dream." he stared at the king again--and thought, "is it a dream . . . or is he the veritable sovereign of england, and not the friendless poor tom o' bedlam i took him for--who shall solve me this riddle?" a sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall, gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and sat down in it! a buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him and a voice exclaimed-- "up, thou mannerless clown! would'st sit in the presence of the king?" the disturbance attracted his majesty's attention, who stretched forth his hand and cried out-- "touch him not, it is his right!" the throng fell back, stupefied. the king went on-- "learn ye all, ladies, lords, and gentlemen, that this is my trusty and well-beloved servant, miles hendon, who interposed his good sword and saved his prince from bodily harm and possible death--and for this he is a knight, by the king's voice. also learn, that for a higher service, in that he saved his sovereign stripes and shame, taking these upon himself, he is a peer of england, earl of kent, and shall have gold and lands meet for the dignity. more--the privilege which he hath just exercised is his by royal grant; for we have ordained that the chiefs of his line shall have and hold the right to sit in the presence of the majesty of england henceforth, age after age, so long as the crown shall endure. molest him not." two persons, who, through delay, had only arrived from the country during this morning, and had now been in this room only five minutes, stood listening to these words and looking at the king, then at the scarecrow, then at the king again, in a sort of torpid bewilderment. these were sir hugh and the lady edith. but the new earl did not see them. he was still staring at the monarch, in a dazed way, and muttering-- "oh, body o' me! this my pauper! this my lunatic! this is he whom _i_ would show what grandeur was, in my house of seventy rooms and seven-and-twenty servants! this is he who had never known aught but rags for raiment, kicks for comfort, and offal for diet! this is he whom _i_ adopted and would make respectable! would god i had a bag to hide my head in!" then his manners suddenly came back to him, and he dropped upon his knees, with his hands between the king's, and swore allegiance and did homage for his lands and titles. then he rose and stood respectfully aside, a mark still for all eyes--and much envy, too. now the king discovered sir hugh, and spoke out with wrathful voice and kindling eye-- "strip this robber of his false show and stolen estates, and put him under lock and key till i have need of him." the late sir hugh was led away. there was a stir at the other end of the room, now; the assemblage fell apart, and tom canty, quaintly but richly clothed, marched down, between these living walls, preceded by an usher. he knelt before the king, who said-- "i have learned the story of these past few weeks, and am well pleased with thee. thou hast governed the realm with right royal gentleness and mercy. thou hast found thy mother and thy sisters again? good; they shall be cared for--and thy father shall hang, if thou desire it and the law consent. know, all ye that hear my voice, that from this day, they that abide in the shelter of christ's hospital and share the king's bounty shall have their minds and hearts fed, as well as their baser parts; and this boy shall dwell there, and hold the chief place in its honourable body of governors, during life. and for that he hath been a king, it is meet that other than common observance shall be his due; wherefore note this his dress of state, for by it he shall be known, and none shall copy it; and wheresoever he shall come, it shall remind the people that he hath been royal, in his time, and none shall deny him his due of reverence or fail to give him salutation. he hath the throne's protection, he hath the crown's support, he shall be known and called by the honourable title of the king's ward." the proud and happy tom canty rose and kissed the king's hand, and was conducted from the presence. he did not waste any time, but flew to his mother, to tell her and nan and bet all about it and get them to help him enjoy the great news. { } conclusion. justice and retribution. when the mysteries were all cleared up, it came out, by confession of hugh hendon, that his wife had repudiated miles by his command, that day at hendon hall--a command assisted and supported by the perfectly trustworthy promise that if she did not deny that he was miles hendon, and stand firmly to it, he would have her life; whereupon she said, "take it!"--she did not value it--and she would not repudiate miles; then the husband said he would spare her life but have miles assassinated! this was a different matter; so she gave her word and kept it. hugh was not prosecuted for his threats or for stealing his brother's estates and title, because the wife and brother would not testify against him--and the former would not have been allowed to do it, even if she had wanted to. hugh deserted his wife and went over to the continent, where he presently died; and by-and-by the earl of kent married his relict. there were grand times and rejoicings at hendon village when the couple paid their first visit to the hall. tom canty's father was never heard of again. the king sought out the farmer who had been branded and sold as a slave, and reclaimed him from his evil life with the ruffler's gang, and put him in the way of a comfortable livelihood. he also took that old lawyer out of prison and remitted his fine. he provided good homes for the daughters of the two baptist women whom he saw burned at the stake, and roundly punished the official who laid the undeserved stripes upon miles hendon's back. he saved from the gallows the boy who had captured the stray falcon, and also the woman who had stolen a remnant of cloth from a weaver; but he was too late to save the man who had been convicted of killing a deer in the royal forest. he showed favour to the justice who had pitied him when he was supposed to have stolen a pig, and he had the gratification of seeing him grow in the public esteem and become a great and honoured man. as long as the king lived he was fond of telling the story of his adventures, all through, from the hour that the sentinel cuffed him away from the palace gate till the final midnight when he deftly mixed himself into a gang of hurrying workmen and so slipped into the abbey and climbed up and hid himself in the confessor's tomb, and then slept so long, next day, that he came within one of missing the coronation altogether. he said that the frequent rehearsing of the precious lesson kept him strong in his purpose to make its teachings yield benefits to his people; and so, whilst his life was spared he should continue to tell the story, and thus keep its sorrowful spectacles fresh in his memory and the springs of pity replenished in his heart. miles hendon and tom canty were favourites of the king, all through his brief reign, and his sincere mourners when he died. the good earl of kent had too much sense to abuse his peculiar privilege; but he exercised it twice after the instance we have seen of it before he was called from this world--once at the accession of queen mary, and once at the accession of queen elizabeth. a descendant of his exercised it at the accession of james i. before this one's son chose to use the privilege, near a quarter of a century had elapsed, and the 'privilege of the kents' had faded out of most people's memories; so, when the kent of that day appeared before charles i. and his court and sat down in the sovereign's presence to assert and perpetuate the right of his house, there was a fine stir indeed! but the matter was soon explained, and the right confirmed. the last earl of the line fell in the wars of the commonwealth fighting for the king, and the odd privilege ended with him. tom canty lived to be a very old man, a handsome, white-haired old fellow, of grave and benignant aspect. as long as he lasted he was honoured; and he was also reverenced, for his striking and peculiar costume kept the people reminded that 'in his time he had been royal;' so, wherever he appeared the crowd fell apart, making way for him, and whispering, one to another, "doff thy hat, it is the king's ward!"--and so they saluted, and got his kindly smile in return--and they valued it, too, for his was an honourable history. yes, king edward vi. lived only a few years, poor boy, but he lived them worthily. more than once, when some great dignitary, some gilded vassal of the crown, made argument against his leniency, and urged that some law which he was bent upon amending was gentle enough for its purpose, and wrought no suffering or oppression which any one need mightily mind, the young king turned the mournful eloquence of his great compassionate eyes upon him and answered-- "what dost thou know of suffering and oppression? i and my people know, but not thou." the reign of edward vi. was a singularly merciful one for those harsh times. now that we are taking leave of him, let us try to keep this in our minds, to his credit. footnotes and twain's notes { } for mark twain's note see below under the relevant chapter heading. { } he refers to the order of baronets, or baronettes; the barones minores, as distinct from the parliamentary barons--not, it need hardly be said, to the baronets of later creation. { } the lords of kingsale, descendants of de courcy, still enjoy this curious privilege. { } hume. { } ib. { } leigh hunt's 'the town,' p. , quotation from an early tourist. { } canting terms for various kinds of thieves, beggars and vagabonds, and their female companions. { } from 'the english rogue.' london, . { } hume's england. { } see dr. j. hammond trumbull's blue laws, true and false, p. . note , chapter iv. christ's hospital costume. it is most reasonable to regard the dress as copied from the costume of the citizens of london of that period, when long blue coats were the common habit of apprentices and serving-men, and yellow stockings were generally worn; the coat fits closely to the body, but has loose sleeves, and beneath is worn a sleeveless yellow under-coat; around the waist is a red leathern girdle; a clerical band around the neck, and a small flat black cap, about the size of a saucer, completes the costume.--timbs' curiosities of london. note , chapter iv. it appears that christ's hospital was not originally founded as a school; its object was to rescue children from the streets, to shelter, feed, clothe them.--timbs' curiosities of london. note , chapter v. the duke of norfolk's condemnation commanded. the king was now approaching fast towards his end; and fearing lest norfolk should escape him, he sent a message to the commons, by which he desired them to hasten the bill, on pretence that norfolk enjoyed the dignity of earl marshal, and it was necessary to appoint another, who might officiate at the ensuing ceremony of installing his son prince of wales.--hume's history of england, vol. iii. p. . note , chapter vii. it was not till the end of this reign (henry viii.) that any salads, carrots, turnips, or other edible roots were produced in england. the little of these vegetables that was used was formerly imported from holland and flanders. queen catherine, when she wanted a salad, was obliged to despatch a messenger thither on purpose.--hume's history of england, vol. iii. p. . note , chapter viii. attainder of norfolk. the house of peers, without examining the prisoner, without trial or evidence, passed a bill of attainder against him and sent it down to the commons . . . the obsequious commons obeyed his (the king's) directions; and the king, having affixed the royal assent to the bill by commissioners, issued orders for the execution of norfolk on the morning of january (the next day).--hume's history of england, vol iii. p . note , chapter x. the loving-cup. the loving-cup, and the peculiar ceremonies observed in drinking from it, are older than english history. it is thought that both are danish importations. as far back as knowledge goes, the loving-cup has always been drunk at english banquets. tradition explains the ceremonies in this way. in the rude ancient times it was deemed a wise precaution to have both hands of both drinkers employed, lest while the pledger pledged his love and fidelity to the pledgee, the pledgee take that opportunity to slip a dirk into him! note , chapter xi. the duke of norfolk's narrow escape. had henry viii. survived a few hours longer, his order for the duke's execution would have been carried into effect. 'but news being carried to the tower that the king himself had expired that night, the lieutenant deferred obeying the warrant; and it was not thought advisable by the council to begin a new reign by the death of the greatest nobleman in the kingdom, who had been condemned by a sentence so unjust and tyrannical.' --hume's history of england, vol. iii, p. . note , chapter xiv. the whipping-boy. james i. and charles ii. had whipping-boys, when they were little fellows, to take their punishment for them when they fell short in their lessons; so i have ventured to furnish my small prince with one, for my own purposes. notes to chapter xv. character of hertford. the young king discovered an extreme attachment to his uncle, who was, in the main, a man of moderation and probity.--hume's history of england, vol. iii, p . but if he (the protector) gave offence by assuming too much state, he deserves great praise on account of the laws passed this session, by which the rigour of former statutes was much mitigated, and some security given to the freedom of the constitution. all laws were repealed which extended the crime of treason beyond the statute of the twenty-fifth of edward iii.; all laws enacted during the late reign extending the crime of felony; all the former laws against lollardy or heresy, together with the statute of the six articles. none were to be accused for words, but within a month after they were spoken. by these repeals several of the most rigorous laws that ever had passed in england were annulled; and some dawn, both of civil and religious liberty, began to appear to the people. a repeal also passed of that law, the destruction of all laws, by which the king's proclamation was made of equal force with a statute. --ibid. vol. iii. p. . boiling to death. in the reign of henry viii. poisoners were, by act of parliament, condemned to be boiled to death. this act was repealed in the following reign. in germany, even in the seventeenth century, this horrible punishment was inflicted on coiners and counterfeiters. taylor, the water poet, describes an execution he witnessed in hamburg in . the judgment pronounced against a coiner of false money was that he should 'be boiled to death in oil; not thrown into the vessel at once, but with a pulley or rope to be hanged under the armpits, and then let down into the oil by degrees; first the feet, and next the legs, and so to boil his flesh from his bones alive.'--dr. j. hammond trumbull's blue laws, true and false, p. . the famous stocking case. a woman and her daughter, nine years old, were hanged in huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a storm by pulling off their stockings!--dr. j. hammond trumbull's blue laws, true and false, p. . note , chapter xvii. enslaving. so young a king and so ignorant a peasant were likely to make mistakes; and this is an instance in point. this peasant was suffering from this law by anticipation; the king was venting his indignation against a law which was not yet in existence; for this hideous statute was to have birth in this little king's own reign. however, we know, from the humanity of his character, that it could never have been suggested by him. notes to chapter xxiii. death for trifling larcenies. when connecticut and new haven were framing their first codes, larceny above the value of twelve pence was a capital crime in england--as it had been since the time of henry i.--dr. j. hammond trumbull's blue laws, true and false, p. . the curious old book called the english rogue makes the limit thirteen pence ha'penny: death being the portion of any who steal a thing 'above the value of thirteen pence ha'penny.' notes to chapter xxvii. from many descriptions of larceny the law expressly took away the benefit of clergy: to steal a horse, or a hawk, or woollen cloth from the weaver, was a hanging matter. so it was to kill a deer from the king's forest, or to export sheep from the kingdom.--dr. j. hammond trumbull's blue laws, true and false, p. . william prynne, a learned barrister, was sentenced (long after edward vi.'s time) to lose both his ears in the pillory, to degradation from the bar, a fine of , pounds, and imprisonment for life. three years afterwards he gave new offence to laud by publishing a pamphlet against the hierarchy. he was again prosecuted, and was sentenced to lose what remained of his ears, to pay a fine of , pounds, to be branded on both his cheeks with the letters s. l. (for seditious libeller), and to remain in prison for life. the severity of this sentence was equalled by the savage rigour of its execution.--ibid. p. . notes to chapter xxxiii. christ's hospital, or bluecoat school, 'the noblest institution in the world.' the ground on which the priory of the grey friars stood was conferred by henry viii. on the corporation of london (who caused the institution there of a home for poor boys and girls). subsequently, edward vi. caused the old priory to be properly repaired, and founded within it that noble establishment called the bluecoat school, or christ's hospital, for the education and maintenance of orphans and the children of indigent persons . . . edward would not let him (bishop ridley) depart till the letter was written (to the lord mayor), and then charged him to deliver it himself, and signify his special request and commandment that no time might be lost in proposing what was convenient, and apprising him of the proceedings. the work was zealously undertaken, ridley himself engaging in it; and the result was the founding of christ's hospital for the education of poor children. (the king endowed several other charities at the same time.) "lord god," said he, "i yield thee most hearty thanks that thou hast given me life thus long to finish this work to the glory of thy name!" that innocent and most exemplary life was drawing rapidly to its close, and in a few days he rendered up his spirit to his creator, praying god to defend the realm from papistry.--j. heneage jesse's london: its celebrated characters and places. in the great hall hangs a large picture of king edward vi. seated on his throne, in a scarlet and ermined robe, holding the sceptre in his left hand, and presenting with the other the charter to the kneeling lord mayor. by his side stands the chancellor, holding the seals, and next to him are other officers of state. bishop ridley kneels before him with uplifted hands, as if supplicating a blessing on the event; whilst the aldermen, etc., with the lord mayor, kneel on both sides, occupying the middle ground of the picture; and lastly, in front, are a double row of boys on one side and girls on the other, from the master and matron down to the boy and girl who have stepped forward from their respective rows, and kneel with raised hands before the king.--timbs' curiosities of london, p. . christ's hospital, by ancient custom, possesses the privilege of addressing the sovereign on the occasion of his or her coming into the city to partake of the hospitality of the corporation of london.--ibid. the dining hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery, occupies the entire storey, which is feet long, feet wide, and feet high; it is lit by nine large windows, filled with stained glass on the south side; and is, next to westminster hall, the noblest room in the metropolis. here the boys, now about in number, dine; and here are held the 'suppings in public,' to which visitors are admitted by tickets issued by the treasurer and by the governors of christ's hospital. the tables are laid with cheese in wooden bowls, beer in wooden piggins, poured from leathern jacks, and bread brought in large baskets. the official company enter; the lord mayor, or president, takes his seat in a state chair made of oak from st. catherine's church, by the tower; a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a 'grecian,' or head boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit, silence being enforced by three drops of a wooden hammer. after prayer the supper commences, and the visitors walk between the tables. at its close the 'trade-boys' take up the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins, and candlesticks, and pass in procession, the bowing to the governors being curiously formal. this spectacle was witnessed by queen victoria and prince albert in . among the more eminent bluecoat boys are joshua barnes, editor of anacreon and euripides; jeremiah markland, the eminent critic, particularly in greek literature; camden, the antiquary; bishop stillingfleet; samuel richardson, the novelist; thomas mitchell, the translator of aristophanes; thomas barnes, many years editor of the london times; coleridge, charles lamb, and leigh hunt. no boy is admitted before he is seven years old, or after he is nine; and no boy can remain in the school after he is fifteen, king's boys and 'grecians' alone excepted. there are about governors, at the head of whom are the sovereign and the prince of wales. the qualification for a governor is payment of pounds.--ibid. general note. one hears much about the 'hideous blue laws of connecticut,' and is accustomed to shudder piously when they are mentioned. there are people in america--and even in england!--who imagine that they were a very monument of malignity, pitilessness, and inhumanity; whereas in reality they were about the first sweeping departure from judicial atrocity which the 'civilised' world had seen. this humane and kindly blue law code, of two hundred and forty years ago, stands all by itself, with ages of bloody law on the further side of it, and a century and three-quarters of bloody english law on this side of it. there has never been a time--under the blue laws or any other--when above fourteen crimes were punishable by death in connecticut. but in england, within the memory of men who are still hale in body and mind, two hundred and twenty-three crimes were punishable by death! { } these facts are worth knowing--and worth thinking about, too. the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter xii. the prince and his deliverer. as soon as miles hendon and the little prince were clear of the mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the river. their way was unobstructed until they approached london bridge; then they ploughed into the multitude again, hendon keeping a fast grip upon the prince's --no, the king's--wrist. the tremendous news was already abroad, and the boy learned it from a thousand voices at once--"the king is dead!" the tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a shudder through his frame. he realised the greatness of his loss, and was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a terror to others had always been gentle with him. the tears sprang to his eyes and blurred all objects. for an instant he felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of god's creatures--then another cry shook the night with its far-reaching thunders: "long live king edward the sixth!" and this made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers' ends. "ah," he thought, "how grand and strange it seems--i am king!" our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the bridge. this structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank of the river to the other. the bridge was a sort of town to itself; it had its inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its food markets, its manufacturing industries, and even its church. it looked upon the two neighbours which it linked together--london and southwark--as being well enough as suburbs, but not otherwise particularly important. it was a close corporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single street a fifth of a mile long, its population was but a village population and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmen intimately, and had known their fathers and mothers before them--and all their little family affairs into the bargain. it had its aristocracy, of course--its fine old families of butchers, and bakers, and what-not, who had occupied the same old premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great history of the bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends; and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and lied in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. it was just the sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited. children were born on the bridge, were reared there, grew to old age, and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part of the world but london bridge alone. such people would naturally imagine that the mighty and interminable procession which moved through its street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts and cries, its neighings and bellowing and bleatings and its muffled thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and themselves somehow the proprietors of it. and so they were, in effect--at least they could exhibit it from their windows, and did--for a consideration--whenever a returning king or hero gave it a fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it for affording a long, straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns. men born and reared upon the bridge found life unendurably dull and inane elsewhere. history tells of one of these who left the bridge at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. but he could only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive. when he was worn out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard spectre, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder of london bridge. in the times of which we are writing, the bridge furnished 'object lessons' in english history for its children--namely, the livid and decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its gateways. but we digress. hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the bridge. as he neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said-- "so, thou'rt come at last! thou'lt not escape again, i warrant thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee somewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap"--and john canty put out his hand to seize the boy. miles hendon stepped in the way and said-- "not too fast, friend. thou art needlessly rough, methinks. what is the lad to thee?" "if it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others' affairs, he is my son." "'tis a lie!" cried the little king, hotly. "boldly said, and i believe thee, whether thy small headpiece be sound or cracked, my boy. but whether this scurvy ruffian be thy father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to bide with me." "i do, i do--i know him not, i loathe him, and will die before i will go with him." "then 'tis settled, and there is nought more to say." "we will see, as to that!" exclaimed john canty, striding past hendon to get at the boy; "by force shall he--" "if thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, i will spit thee like a goose!" said hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon his sword hilt. canty drew back. "now mark ye," continued hendon, "i took this lad under my protection when a mob of such as thou would have mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine i will desert him now to a worser fate?--for whether thou art his father or no--and sooth to say, i think it is a lie--a decent swift death were better for such a lad than life in such brute hands as thine. so go thy ways, and set quick about it, for i like not much bandying of words, being not over-patient in my nature." john canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was swallowed from sight in the crowd. hendon ascended three flights of stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be sent thither. it was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple of sickly candles. the little king dragged himself to the bed and lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and fatigue. he had been on his feet a good part of a day and a night (for it was now two or three o'clock in the morning), and had eaten nothing meantime. he murmured drowsily-- "prithee call me when the table is spread," and sank into a deep sleep immediately. a smile twinkled in hendon's eye, and he said to himself-- "by the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps one's bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them--with never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. in his diseased ravings he called himself the prince of wales, and bravely doth he keep up the character. poor little friendless rat, doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill-usage. well, i will be his friend; i have saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him; already i love the bold-tongued little rascal. how soldier-like he faced the smutty rabble and flung back his high defiance! and what a comely, sweet and gentle face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured away its troubles and its griefs. i will teach him; i will cure his malady; yea, i will be his elder brother, and care for him and watch over him; and whoso would shame him or do him hurt may order his shroud, for though i be burnt for it he shall need it!" he bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the tangled curls with his great brown hand. a slight shiver passed over the boy's form. hendon muttered-- "see, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and fill his body with deadly rheums. now what shall i do? 'twill wake him to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth sleep." he looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, "i am used to nipping air and scant apparel, 'tis little i shall mind the cold!"--then walked up and down the room, to keep his blood in motion, soliloquising as before. "his injured mind persuades him he is prince of wales; 'twill be odd to have a prince of wales still with us, now that he that was the prince is prince no more, but king--for this poor mind is set upon the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should cast by the prince and call itself the king. . . if my father liveth still, after these seven years that i have heard nought from home in my foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and give him generous shelter for my sake; so will my good elder brother, arthur; my other brother, hugh--but i will crack his crown an he interfere, the fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! yes, thither will we fare--and straightway, too." a servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. the door slammed after him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprang to a sitting posture, and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his face and he murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, "alack, it was but a dream, woe is me!" next he noticed miles hendon's doublet--glanced from that to hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had been made for him, and said, gently-- "thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. take it and put it on--i shall not need it more." then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner and stood there, waiting. hendon said in a cheery voice-- "we'll have a right hearty sup and bite, now, for everything is savoury and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a little man again, never fear!" the boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon the tall knight of the sword. hendon was puzzled, and said-- "what's amiss?" "good sir, i would wash me." "oh, is that all? ask no permission of miles hendon for aught thou cravest. make thyself perfectly free here, and welcome, with all that are his belongings." still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once or twice with his small impatient foot. hendon was wholly perplexed. said he-- "bless us, what is it?" "prithee pour the water, and make not so many words!" hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, "by all the saints, but this is admirable!" stepped briskly forward and did the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of stupefaction, until the command, "come--the towel!" woke him sharply up. he took up a towel, from under the boy's nose, and handed it to him without comment. he now proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash, and while he was at it his adopted child seated himself at the table and prepared to fall to. hendon despatched his ablutions with alacrity, then drew back the other chair and was about to place himself at table, when the boy said, indignantly-- "forbear! wouldst sit in the presence of the king?" this blow staggered hendon to his foundations. he muttered to himself, "lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! it hath changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in fancy is he king! good lack, i must humour the conceit, too--there is no other way--faith, he would order me to the tower, else!" and pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table, took his stand behind the king, and proceeded to wait upon him in the courtliest way he was capable of. while the king ate, the rigour of his royal dignity relaxed a little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. he said--"i think thou callest thyself miles hendon, if i heard thee aright?" "yes, sire," miles replied; then observed to himself, "if i must humour the poor lad's madness, i must 'sire' him, i must 'majesty' him, i must not go by halves, i must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part i play, else shall i play it ill and work evil to this charitable and kindly cause." the king warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said--"i would know thee--tell me thy story. thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble--art nobly born?" "we are of the tail of the nobility, good your majesty. my father is a baronet--one of the smaller lords by knight service { }--sir richard hendon of hendon hall, by monk's holm in kent." "the name has escaped my memory. go on--tell me thy story." "'tis not much, your majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short half-hour for want of a better. my father, sir richard, is very rich, and of a most generous nature. my mother died whilst i was yet a boy. i have two brothers: arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his father's; and hugh, younger than i, a mean spirit, covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded--a reptile. such was he from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when i last saw him--a ripe rascal at nineteen, i being twenty then, and arthur twenty-two. there is none other of us but the lady edith, my cousin--she was sixteen then--beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. my father was her guardian. i loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to arthur from the cradle, and sir richard would not suffer the contract to be broken. arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would some day give success to our several causes. hugh loved the lady edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved--but then 'twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the other. but he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but none else. my father loved him best of us all, and trusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, and others hated him--these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent's dearest love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of lying --and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind affection to cozen itself. i was wild--in troth i might go yet farther and say very wild, though 'twas a wildness of an innocent sort, since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine honourable degree. "yet did my brother hugh turn these faults to good account--he seeing that our brother arthur's health was but indifferent, and hoping the worst might work him profit were i swept out of the path--so--but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the telling. briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken ladder in mine apartments--conveyed thither by his own means--and did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants and other lying knaves, that i was minded to carry off my edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will. "three years of banishment from home and england might make a soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of wisdom. i fought out my long probation in the continental wars, tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in my last battle i was taken captive, and during the seven years that have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harboured me. through wit and courage i won to the free air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have wrought at hendon hall, its people and belongings. so please you, sir, my meagre tale is told." "thou hast been shamefully abused!" said the little king, with a flashing eye. "but i will right thee--by the cross will i! the king hath said it." then, fired by the story of miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears of his astonished listener. when he had finished, miles said to himself-- "lo, what an imagination he hath! verily, this is no common mind; else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this curious romaunt. poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend or shelter whilst i bide with the living. he shall never leave my side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. and he shall be cured!--ay, made whole and sound --then will he make himself a name--and proud shall i be to say, 'yes, he is mine--i took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but i saw what was in him, and i said his name would be heard some day--behold him, observe him--was i right?'" the king spoke--in a thoughtful, measured voice-- "thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my crown. such service demandeth rich reward. name thy desire, and so it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine." this fantastic suggestion startled hendon out of his reverie. he was about to thank the king and put the matter aside with saying he had only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and consider the gracious offer--an idea which the king gravely approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty with a thing of such great import. miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, "yes, that is the thing to do--by any other means it were impossible to get at it--and certes, this hour's experience has taught me 'twould be most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is. yes, i will propose it; 'twas a happy accident that i did not throw the chance away." then he dropped upon one knee and said-- "my poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your majesty is pleased to hold it worthy some reward, i take heart of grace to make petition to this effect. near four hundred years ago, as your grace knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt john, king of england, and the king of france, it was decreed that two champions should fight together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by what is called the arbitrament of god. these two kings, and the spanish king, being assembled to witness and judge the conflict, the french champion appeared; but so redoubtable was he, that our english knights refused to measure weapons with him. so the matter, which was a weighty one, was like to go against the english monarch by default. now in the tower lay the lord de courcy, the mightiest arm in england, stripped of his honours and possessions, and wasting with long captivity. appeal was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle; but no sooner did the frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his famous name but he fled away, and the french king's cause was lost. king john restored de courcy's titles and possessions, and said, 'name thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half my kingdom;' whereat de courcy, kneeling, as i do now, made answer, 'this, then, i ask, my liege; that i and my successors may have and hold the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of england, henceforth while the throne shall last.' the boon was granted, as your majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these four hundred years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even unto this day, the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or helm before the king's majesty, without let or hindrance, and this none other may do. { } invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer, i beseech the king to grant to me but this one grace and privilege--to my more than sufficient reward--and none other, to wit: that i and my heirs, for ever, may sit in the presence of the majesty of england!" "rise, sir miles hendon, knight," said the king, gravely--giving the accolade with hendon's sword--"rise, and seat thyself. thy petition is granted. whilst england remains, and the crown continues, the privilege shall not lapse." his majesty walked apart, musing, and hendon dropped into a chair at table, observing to himself, "'twas a brave thought, and hath wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. an i had not thought of that, i must have had to stand for weeks, till my poor lad's wits are cured." after a little, he went on, "and so i am become a knight of the kingdom of dreams and shadows! a most odd and strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as i. i will not laugh--no, god forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to me is real to him. and to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity, for it reflects with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in him." after a pause: "ah, what if he should call me by my fine title before folk!--there'd be a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my raiment! but no matter, let him call me what he will, so it please him; i shall be content." chapter xiii. the disappearance of the prince. a heavy drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades. the king said-- "remove these rags"--meaning his clothing. hendon disapparelled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked him up in bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself, ruefully, "he hath taken my bed again, as before--marry, what shall _i_ do?" the little king observed his perplexity, and dissipated it with a word. he said, sleepily-- "thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it." in a moment more he was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber. "dear heart, he should have been born a king!" muttered hendon, admiringly; "he playeth the part to a marvel." then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying contentedly-- "i have lodged worse for seven years; 'twould be but ill gratitude to him above to find fault with this." he dropped asleep as the dawn appeared. toward noon he rose, uncovered his unconscious ward--a section at a time--and took his measure with a string. the king awoke, just as he had completed his work, complained of the cold, and asked what he was doing. "'tis done, now, my liege," said hendon; "i have a bit of business outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again--thou needest it. there--let me cover thy head also--thou'lt be warm the sooner." the king was back in dreamland before this speech was ended. miles slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the course of thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand suit of boy's clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of wear; but tidy, and suited to the season of the year. he seated himself, and began to overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself-- "a longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not the long purse one must be content with what a short one may do-- "'there was a woman in our town, in our town did dwell--' "he stirred, methinks--i must sing in a less thunderous key; 'tis not good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him, and he so wearied out, poor chap . . . this garment--'tis well enough--a stitch here and another one there will set it aright. this other is better, albeit a stitch or two will not come amiss in it, likewise . . . these be very good and sound, and will keep his small feet warm and dry--an odd new thing to him, belike, since he has doubtless been used to foot it bare, winters and summers the same . . . would thread were bread, seeing one getteth a year's sufficiency for a farthing, and such a brave big needle without cost, for mere love. now shall i have the demon's own time to thread it!" and so he had. he did as men have always done, and probably always will do, to the end of time--held the needle still, and tried to thrust the thread through the eye, which is the opposite of a woman's way. time and time again the thread missed the mark, going sometimes on one side of the needle, sometimes on the other, sometimes doubling up against the shaft; but he was patient, having been through these experiences before, when he was soldiering. he succeeded at last, and took up the garment that had lain waiting, meantime, across his lap, and began his work. "the inn is paid--the breakfast that is to come, included--and there is wherewithal left to buy a couple of donkeys and meet our little costs for the two or three days betwixt this and the plenty that awaits us at hendon hall-- "'she loved her hus--' "body o' me! i have driven the needle under my nail! . . . it matters little--'tis not a novelty--yet 'tis not a convenience, neither . . .we shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it! thy troubles will vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper-- "'she loved her husband dearilee, but another man--' "these be noble large stitches!"--holding the garment up and viewing it admiringly--"they have a grandeur and a majesty that do cause these small stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mightily paltry and plebeian-- "'she loved her husband dearilee, but another man he loved she,--' "marry, 'tis done--a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with expedition. now will i wake him, apparel him, pour for him, feed him, and then will we hie us to the mart by the tabard inn in southwark and --be pleased to rise, my liege!--he answereth not--what ho, my liege!--of a truth must i profane his sacred person with a touch, sith his slumber is deaf to speech. what!" he threw back the covers--the boy was gone! he stared about him in speechless astonishment for a moment; noticed for the first time that his ward's ragged raiment was also missing; then he began to rage and storm and shout for the innkeeper. at that moment a servant entered with the breakfast. "explain, thou limb of satan, or thy time is come!" roared the man of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise. "where is the boy?" in disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information desired. "you were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth came running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come to you straight, at the bridge-end on the southwark side. i brought him hither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad did grumble some little for being disturbed 'so early,' as he called it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with the youth, only saying it had been better manners that your worship came yourself, not sent a stranger--and so--" "and so thou'rt a fool!--a fool and easily cozened--hang all thy breed! yet mayhap no hurt is done. possibly no harm is meant the boy. i will go fetch him. make the table ready. stay! the coverings of the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them--happened that by accident?" "i know not, good your worship. i saw the youth meddle with them--he that came for the boy." "thousand deaths! 'twas done to deceive me--'tis plain 'twas done to gain time. hark ye! was that youth alone?" "all alone, your worship." "art sure?" "sure, your worship." "collect thy scattered wits--bethink thee--take time, man." after a moment's thought, the servant said-- "when he came, none came with him; but now i remember me that as the two stepped into the throng of the bridge, a ruffian-looking man plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them--" "what then?--out with it!" thundered the impatient hendon, interrupting. "just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and i saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though i take all the saints to witness that to blame me for that miscarriage were like holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com--" "out of my sight, idiot! thy prating drives me mad! hold! whither art flying? canst not bide still an instant? went they toward southwark?" "even so, your worship--for, as i said before, as to that detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than--" "art here yet! and prating still! vanish, lest i throttle thee!" the servitor vanished. hendon followed after him, passed him, and plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, "'tis that scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. i have lost thee, my poor little mad master--it is a bitter thought--and i had come to love thee so! no! by book and bell, not lost! not lost, for i will ransack the land till i find thee again. poor child, yonder is his breakfast--and mine, but i have no hunger now; so, let the rats have it--speed, speed! that is the word!" as he wormed his swift way through the noisy multitudes upon the bridge he several times said to himself--clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing one--"he grumbled, but he went--he went, yes, because he thought miles hendon asked it, sweet lad--he would ne'er have done it for another, i know it well." chapter xiv. 'le roi est mort--vive le roi.' toward daylight of the same morning, tom canty stirred out of a heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. he lay silent a few moments, trying to analyse his confused thoughts and impressions, and get some sort of meaning out of them; then suddenly he burst out in a rapturous but guarded voice-- "i see it all, i see it all! now god be thanked, i am indeed awake at last! come, joy! vanish, sorrow! ho, nan! bet! kick off your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till i do pour into your unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal! . . . ho, nan, i say! bet!" a dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said-- "wilt deign to deliver thy commands?" "commands? . . . o, woe is me, i know thy voice! speak thou--who am i?" "thou? in sooth, yesternight wert thou the prince of wales; to-day art thou my most gracious liege, edward, king of england." tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively-- "alack, it was no dream! go to thy rest, sweet sir--leave me to my sorrows." tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. he thought it was summer, and he was playing, all alone, in the fair meadow called goodman's fields, when a dwarf only a foot high, with long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly and said, "dig by that stump." he did so, and found twelve bright new pennies--wonderful riches! yet this was not the best of it; for the dwarf said-- "i know thee. thou art a good lad, and a deserving; thy distresses shall end, for the day of thy reward is come. dig here every seventh day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure, twelve bright new pennies. tell none--keep the secret." then the dwarf vanished, and tom flew to offal court with his prize, saying to himself, "every night will i give my father a penny; he will think i begged it, it will glad his heart, and i shall no more be beaten. one penny every week the good priest that teacheth me shall have; mother, nan, and bet the other four. we be done with hunger and rags, now, done with fears and frets and savage usage." in his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but with eyes dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his pennies into his mother's lap and cried out-- "they are for thee!--all of them, every one!--for thee and nan and bet --and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!" the happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and exclaimed-- "it waxeth late--may it please your majesty to rise?" ah! that was not the answer he was expecting. the dream had snapped asunder--he was awake. he opened his eyes--the richly clad first lord of the bedchamber was kneeling by his couch. the gladness of the lying dream faded away--the poor boy recognised that he was still a captive and a king. the room was filled with courtiers clothed in purple mantles--the mourning colour--and with noble servants of the monarch. tom sat up in bed and gazed out from the heavy silken curtains upon this fine company. the weighty business of dressing began, and one courtier after another knelt and paid his court and offered to the little king his condolences upon his heavy loss, whilst the dressing proceeded. in the beginning, a shirt was taken up by the chief equerry in waiting, who passed it to the first lord of the buckhounds, who passed it to the second gentleman of the bedchamber, who passed it to the head ranger of windsor forest, who passed it to the third groom of the stole, who passed it to the chancellor royal of the duchy of lancaster, who passed it to the master of the wardrobe, who passed it to norroy king-at-arms, who passed it to the constable of the tower, who passed it to the chief steward of the household, who passed it to the hereditary grand diaperer, who passed it to the lord high admiral of england, who passed it to the archbishop of canterbury, who passed it to the first lord of the bedchamber, who took what was left of it and put it on tom. poor little wondering chap, it reminded him of passing buckets at a fire. each garment in its turn had to go through this slow and solemn process; consequently tom grew very weary of the ceremony; so weary that he felt an almost gushing gratefulness when he at last saw his long silken hose begin the journey down the line and knew that the end of the matter was drawing near. but he exulted too soon. the first lord of the bedchamber received the hose and was about to encase tom's legs in them, when a sudden flush invaded his face and he hurriedly hustled the things back into the hands of the archbishop of canterbury with an astounded look and a whispered, "see, my lord!" pointing to a something connected with the hose. the archbishop paled, then flushed, and passed the hose to the lord high admiral, whispering, "see, my lord!" the admiral passed the hose to the hereditary grand diaperer, and had hardly breath enough in his body to ejaculate, "see, my lord!" the hose drifted backward along the line, to the chief steward of the household, the constable of the tower, norroy king-at-arms, the master of the wardrobe, the chancellor royal of the duchy of lancaster, the third groom of the stole, the head ranger of windsor forest, the second gentleman of the bedchamber, the first lord of the buckhounds,--accompanied always with that amazed and frightened "see! see!"--till they finally reached the hands of the chief equerry in waiting, who gazed a moment, with a pallid face, upon what had caused all this dismay, then hoarsely whispered, "body of my life, a tag gone from a truss-point!--to the tower with the head keeper of the king's hose!"--after which he leaned upon the shoulder of the first lord of the buckhounds to regather his vanished strength whilst fresh hose, without any damaged strings to them, were brought. but all things must have an end, and so in time tom canty was in a condition to get out of bed. the proper official poured water, the proper official engineered the washing, the proper official stood by with a towel, and by-and-by tom got safely through the purifying stage and was ready for the services of the hairdresser-royal. when he at length emerged from this master's hands, he was a gracious figure and as pretty as a girl, in his mantle and trunks of purple satin, and purple-plumed cap. he now moved in state toward his breakfast-room, through the midst of the courtly assemblage; and as he passed, these fell back, leaving his way free, and dropped upon their knees. after breakfast he was conducted, with regal ceremony, attended by his great officers and his guard of fifty gentlemen pensioners bearing gilt battle-axes, to the throne-room, where he proceeded to transact business of state. his 'uncle,' lord hertford, took his stand by the throne, to assist the royal mind with wise counsel. the body of illustrious men named by the late king as his executors appeared, to ask tom's approval of certain acts of theirs--rather a form, and yet not wholly a form, since there was no protector as yet. the archbishop of canterbury made report of the decree of the council of executors concerning the obsequies of his late most illustrious majesty, and finished by reading the signatures of the executors, to wit: the archbishop of canterbury; the lord chancellor of england; william lord st. john; john lord russell; edward earl of hertford; john viscount lisle; cuthbert bishop of durham-- tom was not listening--an earlier clause of the document was puzzling him. at this point he turned and whispered to lord hertford-- "what day did he say the burial hath been appointed for?" "the sixteenth of the coming month, my liege." "'tis a strange folly. will he keep?" poor chap, he was still new to the customs of royalty; he was used to seeing the forlorn dead of offal court hustled out of the way with a very different sort of expedition. however, the lord hertford set his mind at rest with a word or two. a secretary of state presented an order of the council appointing the morrow at eleven for the reception of the foreign ambassadors, and desired the king's assent. tom turned an inquiring look toward hertford, who whispered-- "your majesty will signify consent. they come to testify their royal masters' sense of the heavy calamity which hath visited your grace and the realm of england." tom did as he was bidden. another secretary began to read a preamble concerning the expenses of the late king's household, which had amounted to , pounds during the preceding six months--a sum so vast that it made tom canty gasp; he gasped again when the fact appeared that , pounds of this money was still owing and unpaid; { } and once more when it appeared that the king's coffers were about empty, and his twelve hundred servants much embarrassed for lack of the wages due them. tom spoke out, with lively apprehension-- "we be going to the dogs, 'tis plain. 'tis meet and necessary that we take a smaller house and set the servants at large, sith they be of no value but to make delay, and trouble one with offices that harass the spirit and shame the soul, they misbecoming any but a doll, that hath nor brains nor hands to help itself withal. i remember me of a small house that standeth over against the fish-market, by billingsgate--" a sharp pressure upon tom's arm stopped his foolish tongue and sent a blush to his face; but no countenance there betrayed any sign that this strange speech had been remarked or given concern. a secretary made report that forasmuch as the late king had provided in his will for conferring the ducal degree upon the earl of hertford and raising his brother, sir thomas seymour, to the peerage, and likewise hertford's son to an earldom, together with similar aggrandisements to other great servants of the crown, the council had resolved to hold a sitting on the th of february for the delivering and confirming of these honours, and that meantime, the late king not having granted, in writing, estates suitable to the support of these dignities, the council, knowing his private wishes in that regard, had thought proper to grant to seymour ' pound lands,' and to hertford's son ' pound lands, and pound of the next bishop's lands which should fall vacant,'--his present majesty being willing. { } tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying the late king's debts first, before squandering all this money, but a timely touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful hertford, saved him this indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent, without spoken comment, but with much inward discomfort. while he sat reflecting a moment over the ease with which he was doing strange and glittering miracles, a happy thought shot into his mind: why not make his mother duchess of offal court, and give her an estate? but a sorrowful thought swept it instantly away: he was only a king in name, these grave veterans and great nobles were his masters; to them his mother was only the creature of a diseased mind; they would simply listen to his project with unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor. the dull work went tediously on. petitions were read, and proclamations, patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious, and wearisome papers relating to the public business; and at last tom sighed pathetically and murmured to himself, "in what have i offended, that the good god should take me away from the fields and the free air and the sunshine, to shut me up here and make me a king and afflict me so?" then his poor muddled head nodded a while and presently drooped to his shoulder; and the business of the empire came to a standstill for want of that august factor, the ratifying power. silence ensued around the slumbering child, and the sages of the realm ceased from their deliberations. during the forenoon, tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of his keepers, hertford and st. john, with the lady elizabeth and the little lady jane grey; though the spirits of the princesses were rather subdued by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the royal house; and at the end of the visit his 'elder sister'--afterwards the 'bloody mary' of history --chilled him with a solemn interview which had but one merit in his eyes, its brevity. he had a few moments to himself, and then a slim lad of about twelve years of age was admitted to his presence, whose clothing, except his snowy ruff and the laces about his wrists, was of black, --doublet, hose, and all. he bore no badge of mourning but a knot of purple ribbon on his shoulder. he advanced hesitatingly, with head bowed and bare, and dropped upon one knee in front of tom. tom sat still and contemplated him soberly a moment. then he said-- "rise, lad. who art thou. what wouldst have?" the boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of concern in his face. he said-- "of a surety thou must remember me, my lord. i am thy whipping-boy." "my whipping-boy?" "the same, your grace. i am humphrey--humphrey marlow." tom perceived that here was someone whom his keepers ought to have posted him about. the situation was delicate. what should he do?--pretend he knew this lad, and then betray by his every utterance that he had never heard of him before? no, that would not do. an idea came to his relief: accidents like this might be likely to happen with some frequency, now that business urgencies would often call hertford and st. john from his side, they being members of the council of executors; therefore perhaps it would be well to strike out a plan himself to meet the requirements of such emergencies. yes, that would be a wise course--he would practise on this boy, and see what sort of success he might achieve. so he stroked his brow perplexedly a moment or two, and presently said-- "now i seem to remember thee somewhat--but my wit is clogged and dim with suffering--" "alack, my poor master!" ejaculated the whipping-boy, with feeling; adding, to himself, "in truth 'tis as they said--his mind is gone--alas, poor soul! but misfortune catch me, how am i forgetting! they said one must not seem to observe that aught is wrong with him." "'tis strange how my memory doth wanton with me these days," said tom. "but mind it not--i mend apace--a little clue doth often serve to bring me back again the things and names which had escaped me. (and not they, only, forsooth, but e'en such as i ne'er heard before--as this lad shall see.) give thy business speech." "'tis matter of small weight, my liege, yet will i touch upon it, an' it please your grace. two days gone by, when your majesty faulted thrice in your greek--in the morning lessons,--dost remember it?" "y-e-s--methinks i do. (it is not much of a lie--an' i had meddled with the greek at all, i had not faulted simply thrice, but forty times.) yes, i do recall it, now--go on." "the master, being wroth with what he termed such slovenly and doltish work, did promise that he would soundly whip me for it--and--" "whip thee!" said tom, astonished out of his presence of mind. "why should he whip thee for faults of mine?" "ah, your grace forgetteth again. he always scourgeth me when thou dost fail in thy lessons." "true, true--i had forgot. thou teachest me in private--then if i fail, he argueth that thy office was lamely done, and--" "oh, my liege, what words are these? i, the humblest of thy servants, presume to teach thee?" "then where is thy blame? what riddle is this? am i in truth gone mad, or is it thou? explain--speak out." "but, good your majesty, there's nought that needeth simplifying.--none may visit the sacred person of the prince of wales with blows; wherefore, when he faulteth, 'tis i that take them; and meet it is and right, for that it is mine office and my livelihood." { } tom stared at the tranquil boy, observing to himself, "lo, it is a wonderful thing,--a most strange and curious trade; i marvel they have not hired a boy to take my combings and my dressings for me--would heaven they would!--an' they will do this thing, i will take my lashings in mine own person, giving god thanks for the change." then he said aloud-- "and hast thou been beaten, poor friend, according to the promise?" "no, good your majesty, my punishment was appointed for this day, and peradventure it may be annulled, as unbefitting the season of mourning that is come upon us; i know not, and so have made bold to come hither and remind your grace about your gracious promise to intercede in my behalf--" "with the master? to save thee thy whipping?" "ah, thou dost remember!" "my memory mendeth, thou seest. set thy mind at ease--thy back shall go unscathed--i will see to it." "oh, thanks, my good lord!" cried the boy, dropping upon his knee again. "mayhap i have ventured far enow; and yet--" seeing master humphrey hesitate, tom encouraged him to go on, saying he was "in the granting mood." "then will i speak it out, for it lieth near my heart. sith thou art no more prince of wales but king, thou canst order matters as thou wilt, with none to say thee nay; wherefore it is not in reason that thou wilt longer vex thyself with dreary studies, but wilt burn thy books and turn thy mind to things less irksome. then am i ruined, and mine orphan sisters with me!" "ruined? prithee how?" "my back is my bread, o my gracious liege! if it go idle, i starve. an' thou cease from study mine office is gone thou'lt need no whipping-boy. do not turn me away!" tom was touched with this pathetic distress. he said, with a right royal burst of generosity-- "discomfort thyself no further, lad. thine office shall be permanent in thee and thy line for ever." then he struck the boy a light blow on the shoulder with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "rise, humphrey marlow, hereditary grand whipping-boy to the royal house of england! banish sorrow--i will betake me to my books again, and study so ill that they must in justice treble thy wage, so mightily shall the business of thine office be augmented." the grateful humphrey responded fervidly-- "thanks, o most noble master, this princely lavishness doth far surpass my most distempered dreams of fortune. now shall i be happy all my days, and all the house of marlow after me." tom had wit enough to perceive that here was a lad who could be useful to him. he encouraged humphrey to talk, and he was nothing loath. he was delighted to believe that he was helping in tom's 'cure'; for always, as soon as he had finished calling back to tom's diseased mind the various particulars of his experiences and adventures in the royal school-room and elsewhere about the palace, he noticed that tom was then able to 'recall' the circumstances quite clearly. at the end of an hour tom found himself well freighted with very valuable information concerning personages and matters pertaining to the court; so he resolved to draw instruction from this source daily; and to this end he would give order to admit humphrey to the royal closet whenever he might come, provided the majesty of england was not engaged with other people. humphrey had hardly been dismissed when my lord hertford arrived with more trouble for tom. he said that the lords of the council, fearing that some overwrought report of the king's damaged health might have leaked out and got abroad, they deemed it wise and best that his majesty should begin to dine in public after a day or two--his wholesome complexion and vigorous step, assisted by a carefully guarded repose of manner and ease and grace of demeanour, would more surely quiet the general pulse--in case any evil rumours had gone about--than any other scheme that could be devised. then the earl proceeded, very delicately, to instruct tom as to the observances proper to the stately occasion, under the rather thin disguise of 'reminding' him concerning things already known to him; but to his vast gratification it turned out that tom needed very little help in this line--he had been making use of humphrey in that direction, for humphrey had mentioned that within a few days he was to begin to dine in public; having gathered it from the swift-winged gossip of the court. tom kept these facts to himself, however. seeing the royal memory so improved, the earl ventured to apply a few tests to it, in an apparently casual way, to find out how far its amendment had progressed. the results were happy, here and there, in spots--spots where humphrey's tracks remained--and on the whole my lord was greatly pleased and encouraged. so encouraged was he, indeed, that he spoke up and said in a quite hopeful voice-- "now am i persuaded that if your majesty will but tax your memory yet a little further, it will resolve the puzzle of the great seal--a loss which was of moment yesterday, although of none to-day, since its term of service ended with our late lord's life. may it please your grace to make the trial?" tom was at sea--a great seal was something which he was totally unacquainted with. after a moment's hesitation he looked up innocently and asked-- "what was it like, my lord?" the earl started, almost imperceptibly, muttering to himself, "alack, his wits are flown again!--it was ill wisdom to lead him on to strain them" --then he deftly turned the talk to other matters, with the purpose of sweeping the unlucky seal out of tom's thoughts--a purpose which easily succeeded. the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter xxvii. in prison. the cells were all crowded; so the two friends were chained in a large room where persons charged with trifling offences were commonly kept. they had company, for there were some twenty manacled and fettered prisoners here, of both sexes and of varying ages,--an obscene and noisy gang. the king chafed bitterly over the stupendous indignity thus put upon his royalty, but hendon was moody and taciturn. he was pretty thoroughly bewildered; he had come home, a jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild with joy over his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder and a jail. the promise and the fulfilment differed so widely that the effect was stunning; he could not decide whether it was most tragic or most grotesque. he felt much as a man might who had danced blithely out to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by lightning. but gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down into some sort of order, and then his mind centred itself upon edith. he turned her conduct over, and examined it in all lights, but he could not make anything satisfactory out of it. did she know him--or didn't she know him? it was a perplexing puzzle, and occupied him a long time; but he ended, finally, with the conviction that she did know him, and had repudiated him for interested reasons. he wanted to load her name with curses now; but this name had so long been sacred to him that he found he could not bring his tongue to profane it. wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition, hendon and the king passed a troubled night. for a bribe the jailer had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of ribald songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing was the natural consequence. at last, a while after midnight, a man attacked a woman and nearly killed her by beating her over the head with his manacles before the jailer could come to the rescue. the jailer restored peace by giving the man a sound clubbing about the head and shoulders--then the carousing ceased; and after that, all had an opportunity to sleep who did not mind the annoyance of the moanings and groanings of the two wounded people. during the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a monotonous sameness as to events; men whose faces hendon remembered more or less distinctly, came, by day, to gaze at the 'impostor' and repudiate and insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling went on with symmetrical regularity. however, there was a change of incident at last. the jailer brought in an old man, and said to him-- "the villain is in this room--cast thy old eyes about and see if thou canst say which is he." hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the first time since he had been in the jail. he said to himself, "this is blake andrews, a servant all his life in my father's family--a good honest soul, with a right heart in his breast. that is, formerly. but none are true now; all are liars. this man will know me--and will deny me, too, like the rest." the old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn, and finally said-- "i see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets. which is he?" the jailer laughed. "here," he said; "scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion." the old man approached, and looked hendon over, long and earnestly, then shook his head and said-- "marry, this is no hendon--nor ever was!" "right! thy old eyes are sound yet. an' i were sir hugh, i would take the shabby carle and--" the jailer finished by lifting himself a-tip-toe with an imaginary halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his throat suggestive of suffocation. the old man said, vindictively-- "let him bless god an' he fare no worse. an' _i_ had the handling o' the villain he should roast, or i am no true man!" the jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said-- "give him a piece of thy mind, old man--they all do it. thou'lt find it good diversion." then he sauntered toward his ante-room and disappeared. the old man dropped upon his knees and whispered-- "god be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master! i believed thou wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! i knew thee the moment i saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves and rubbish o' the streets. i am old and poor, sir miles; but say the word and i will go forth and proclaim the truth though i be strangled for it." "no," said hendon; "thou shalt not. it would ruin thee, and yet help but little in my cause. but i thank thee, for thou hast given me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind." the old servant became very valuable to hendon and the king; for he dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the former, and always smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of fare; he also furnished the current news. hendon reserved the dainties for the king; without them his majesty might not have survived, for he was not able to eat the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer. andrews was obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in order to avoid suspicion; but he managed to impart a fair degree of information each time --information delivered in a low voice, for hendon's benefit, and interlarded with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice for the benefit of other hearers. so, little by little, the story of the family came out. arthur had been dead six years. this loss, with the absence of news from hendon, impaired the father's health; he believed he was going to die, and he wished to see hugh and edith settled in life before he passed away; but edith begged hard for delay, hoping for miles's return; then the letter came which brought the news of miles's death; the shock prostrated sir richard; he believed his end was very near, and he and hugh insisted upon the marriage; edith begged for and obtained a month's respite, then another, and finally a third; the marriage then took place by the death-bed of sir richard. it had not proved a happy one. it was whispered about the country that shortly after the nuptials the bride found among her husband's papers several rough and incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him of precipitating the marriage--and sir richard's death, too--by a wicked forgery. tales of cruelty to the lady edith and the servants were to be heard on all hands; and since the father's death sir hugh had thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master toward all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread. there was a bit of andrew's gossip which the king listened to with a lively interest-- "there is rumour that the king is mad. but in charity forbear to say _i_ mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of it, they say." his majesty glared at the old man and said-- "the king is not mad, good man--and thou'lt find it to thy advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than this seditious prattle." "what doth the lad mean?" said andrews, surprised at this brisk assault from such an unexpected quarter. hendon gave him a sign, and he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget-- "the late king is to be buried at windsor in a day or two--the th of the month--and the new king will be crowned at westminster the th." "methinks they must needs find him first," muttered his majesty; then added, confidently, "but they will look to that--and so also shall i." "in the name of--" but the old man got no further--a warning sign from hendon checked his remark. he resumed the thread of his gossip-- "sir hugh goeth to the coronation--and with grand hopes. he confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favour with the lord protector." "what lord protector?" asked his majesty. "his grace the duke of somerset." "what duke of somerset?" "marry, there is but one--seymour, earl of hertford." the king asked sharply-- "since when is he a duke, and lord protector?" "since the last day of january." "and prithee who made him so?" "himself and the great council--with help of the king." his majesty started violently. "the king!" he cried. "what king, good sir?" "what king, indeed! (god-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) sith we have but one, 'tis not difficult to answer--his most sacred majesty king edward the sixth--whom god preserve! yea, and a dear and gracious little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or no--and they say he mendeth daily --his praises are on all men's lips; and all bless him, likewise, and offer prayers that he may be spared to reign long in england; for he began humanely with saving the old duke of norfolk's life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruellest of the laws that harry and oppress the people." this news struck his majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged him into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old man's gossip. he wondered if the 'little urchin' was the beggar-boy whom he left dressed in his own garments in the palace. it did not seem possible that this could be, for surely his manners and speech would betray him if he pretended to be the prince of wales--then he would be driven out, and search made for the true prince. could it be that the court had set up some sprig of the nobility in his place? no, for his uncle would not allow that--he was all-powerful and could and would crush such a movement, of course. the boy's musings profited him nothing; the more he tried to unriddle the mystery the more perplexed he became, the more his head ached, and the worse he slept. his impatience to get to london grew hourly, and his captivity became almost unendurable. hendon's arts all failed with the king--he could not be comforted; but a couple of women who were chained near him succeeded better. under their gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a degree of patience. he was very grateful, and came to love them dearly and to delight in the sweet and soothing influence of their presence. he asked them why they were in prison, and when they said they were baptists, he smiled, and inquired-- "is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison? now i grieve, for i shall lose ye--they will not keep ye long for such a little thing." they did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy. he said, eagerly-- "you do not speak; be good to me, and tell me--there will be no other punishment? prithee tell me there is no fear of that." they tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he pursued it-- "will they scourge thee? no, no, they would not be so cruel! say they would not. come, they will not, will they?" the women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no avoiding an answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with emotion-- "oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit!--god will help us to bear our--" "it is a confession!" the king broke in. "then they will scourge thee, the stony-hearted wretches! but oh, thou must not weep, i cannot bear it. keep up thy courage--i shall come to my own in time to save thee from this bitter thing, and i will do it!" when the king awoke in the morning, the women were gone. "they are saved!" he said, joyfully; then added, despondently, "but woe is me!--for they were my comforters." each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in token of remembrance. he said he would keep these things always; and that soon he would seek out these dear good friends of his and take them under his protection. just then the jailer came in with some subordinates, and commanded that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard. the king was overjoyed--it would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and breathe the fresh air once more. he fretted and chafed at the slowness of the officers, but his turn came at last, and he was released from his staple and ordered to follow the other prisoners with hendon. the court or quadrangle was stone-paved, and open to the sky. the prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and were placed in file, standing, with their backs against the wall. a rope was stretched in front of them, and they were also guarded by their officers. it was a chill and lowering morning, and a light snow which had fallen during the night whitened the great empty space and added to the general dismalness of its aspect. now and then a wintry wind shivered through the place and sent the snow eddying hither and thither. in the centre of the court stood two women, chained to posts. a glance showed the king that these were his good friends. he shuddered, and said to himself, "alack, they are not gone free, as i had thought. to think that such as these should know the lash!--in england! ay, there's the shame of it--not in heathennesse, christian england! they will be scourged; and i, whom they have comforted and kindly entreated, must look on and see the great wrong done; it is strange, so strange, that i, the very source of power in this broad realm, am helpless to protect them. but let these miscreants look well to themselves, for there is a day coming when i will require of them a heavy reckoning for this work. for every blow they strike now, they shall feel a hundred then." a great gate swung open, and a crowd of citizens poured in. they flocked around the two women, and hid them from the king's view. a clergyman entered and passed through the crowd, and he also was hidden. the king now heard talking, back and forth, as if questions were being asked and answered, but he could not make out what was said. next there was a deal of bustle and preparation, and much passing and repassing of officials through that part of the crowd that stood on the further side of the women; and whilst this proceeded a deep hush gradually fell upon the people. now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and the king saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones. faggots had been piled about the two women, and a kneeling man was lighting them! the women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with their hands; the yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping and crackling faggots, and wreaths of blue smoke to stream away on the wind; the clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer--just then two young girls came flying through the great gate, uttering piercing screams, and threw themselves upon the women at the stake. instantly they were torn away by the officers, and one of them was kept in a tight grip, but the other broke loose, saying she would die with her mother; and before she could be stopped she had flung her arms about her mother's neck again. she was torn away once more, and with her gown on fire. two or three men held her, and the burning portion of her gown was snatched off and thrown flaming aside, she struggling all the while to free herself, and saying she would be alone in the world, now; and begging to be allowed to die with her mother. both the girls screamed continually, and fought for freedom; but suddenly this tumult was drowned under a volley of heart-piercing shrieks of mortal agony--the king glanced from the frantic girls to the stake, then turned away and leaned his ashen face against the wall, and looked no more. he said, "that which i have seen, in that one little moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide there; and i shall see it all the days, and dream of it all the nights, till i die. would god i had been blind!" hendon was watching the king. he said to himself, with satisfaction, "his disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth gentler. if he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at these varlets, and said he was king, and commanded that the women be turned loose unscathed. soon his delusion will pass away and be forgotten, and his poor mind will be whole again. god speed the day!" that same day several prisoners were brought in to remain over night, who were being conveyed, under guard, to various places in the kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes committed. the king conversed with these --he had made it a point, from the beginning, to instruct himself for the kingly office by questioning prisoners whenever the opportunity offered --and the tale of their woes wrung his heart. one of them was a poor half-witted woman who had stolen a yard or two of cloth from a weaver --she was to be hanged for it. another was a man who had been accused of stealing a horse; he said the proof had failed, and he had imagined that he was safe from the halter; but no--he was hardly free before he was arraigned for killing a deer in the king's park; this was proved against him, and now he was on his way to the gallows. there was a tradesman's apprentice whose case particularly distressed the king; this youth said he found a hawk, one evening, that had escaped from its owner, and he took it home with him, imagining himself entitled to it; but the court convicted him of stealing it, and sentenced him to death. the king was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted hendon to break jail and fly with him to westminster, so that he could mount his throne and hold out his sceptre in mercy over these unfortunate people and save their lives. "poor child," sighed hendon, "these woeful tales have brought his malady upon him again; alack, but for this evil hap, he would have been well in a little time." among these prisoners was an old lawyer--a man with a strong face and a dauntless mien. three years past, he had written a pamphlet against the lord chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been punished for it by the loss of his ears in the pillory, and degradation from the bar, and in addition had been fined , pounds and sentenced to imprisonment for life. lately he had repeated his offence; and in consequence was now under sentence to lose what remained of his ears, pay a fine of , pounds, be branded on both cheeks, and remain in prison for life. "these be honourable scars," he said, and turned back his grey hair and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears. the king's eye burned with passion. he said-- "none believe in me--neither wilt thou. but no matter--within the compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that have dishonoured thee, and shamed the english name, shall be swept from the statute books. the world is made wrong; kings should go to school to their own laws, at times, and so learn mercy." { } chapter xxviii. the sacrifice. meantime miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinement and inaction. but now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and he thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further imprisonment should not be a part of it. but he was mistaken about that. he was in a fine fury when he found himself described as a 'sturdy vagabond' and sentenced to sit two hours in the stocks for bearing that character and for assaulting the master of hendon hall. his pretensions as to brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the hendon honours and estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not even worth examination. he raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an occasional cuff, besides, for his irreverent conduct. the king could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed behind; so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his good friend and servant. the king had been nearly condemned to the stocks himself for being in such bad company, but had been let off with a lecture and a warning, in consideration of his youth. when the crowd at last halted, he flitted feverishly from point to point around its outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at last, after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded. there sat his poor henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and butt of a dirty mob--he, the body servant of the king of england! edward had heard the sentence pronounced, but he had not realised the half that it meant. his anger began to rise as the sense of this new indignity which had been put upon him sank home; it jumped to summer heat, the next moment, when he saw an egg sail through the air and crush itself against hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its enjoyment of the episode. he sprang across the open circle and confronted the officer in charge, crying-- "for shame! this is my servant--set him free! i am the--" "oh, peace!" exclaimed hendon, in a panic, "thou'lt destroy thyself. mind him not, officer, he is mad." "give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good man, i have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him somewhat, to that i am well inclined." he turned to a subordinate and said, "give the little fool a taste or two of the lash, to mend his manners." "half a dozen will better serve his turn," suggested sir hugh, who had ridden up, a moment before, to take a passing glance at the proceedings. the king was seized. he did not even struggle, so paralysed was he with the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be inflicted upon his sacred person. history was already defiled with the record of the scourging of an english king with whips--it was an intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that shameful page. he was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must either take this punishment or beg for its remission. hard conditions; he would take the stripes--a king might do that, but a king could not beg. but meantime, miles hendon was resolving the difficulty. "let the child go," said he; "ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young and frail he is? let him go--i will take his lashes." "marry, a good thought--and thanks for it," said sir hugh, his face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. "let the little beggar go, and give this fellow a dozen in his place--an honest dozen, well laid on." the king was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but sir hugh silenced him with the potent remark, "yes, speak up, do, and free thy mind--only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he shall get six strokes the more." hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and whilst the lash was applied the poor little king turned away his face and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. "ah, brave good heart," he said to himself, "this loyal deed shall never perish out of my memory. i will not forget it--and neither shall they!" he added, with passion. whilst he mused, his appreciation of hendon's magnanimous conduct grew to greater and still greater dimensions in his mind, and so also did his gratefulness for it. presently he said to himself, "who saves his prince from wounds and possible death--and this he did for me --performs high service; but it is little--it is nothing--oh, less than nothing!--when 'tis weighed against the act of him who saves his prince from shame!" hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy blows with soldierly fortitude. this, together with his redeeming the boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound of the falling blows. the stillness that pervaded the place, when hendon found himself once more in the stocks, was in strong contrast with the insulting clamour which had prevailed there so little a while before. the king came softly to hendon's side, and whispered in his ear-- "kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for one who is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm thy nobility to men." he picked up the scourge from the ground, touched hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered, "edward of england dubs thee earl!" hendon was touched. the water welled to his eyes, yet at the same time the grisly humour of the situation and circumstances so undermined his gravity that it was all he could do to keep some sign of his inward mirth from showing outside. to be suddenly hoisted, naked and gory, from the common stocks to the alpine altitude and splendour of an earldom, seemed to him the last possibility in the line of the grotesque. he said to himself, "now am i finely tinselled, indeed! the spectre-knight of the kingdom of dreams and shadows is become a spectre-earl--a dizzy flight for a callow wing! an' this go on, i shall presently be hung like a very maypole with fantastic gauds and make-believe honours. but i shall value them, all valueless as they are, for the love that doth bestow them. better these poor mock dignities of mine, that come unasked, from a clean hand and a right spirit, than real ones bought by servility from grudging and interested power." the dreaded sir hugh wheeled his horse about, and as he spurred away, the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as silently closed together again. and so remained; nobody went so far as to venture a remark in favour of the prisoner, or in compliment to him; but no matter --the absence of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself. a late comer who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and who delivered a sneer at the 'impostor,' and was in the act of following it with a dead cat, was promptly knocked down and kicked out, without any words, and then the deep quiet resumed sway once more. chapter xxix. to london. when hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished, he was released and ordered to quit the region and come back no more. his sword was restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey. he mounted and rode off, followed by the king, the crowd opening with quiet respectfulness to let them pass, and then dispersing when they were gone. hendon was soon absorbed in thought. there were questions of high import to be answered. what should he do? whither should he go? powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor besides. where could he hope to find this powerful help? where, indeed! it was a knotty question. by-and-by a thought occurred to him which pointed to a possibility--the slenderest of slender possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of any other that promised anything at all. he remembered what old andrews had said about the young king's goodness and his generous championship of the wronged and unfortunate. why not go and try to get speech of him and beg for justice? ah, yes, but could so fantastic a pauper get admission to the august presence of a monarch? never mind--let that matter take care of itself; it was a bridge that would not need to be crossed till he should come to it. he was an old campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and expedients: no doubt he would be able to find a way. yes, he would strike for the capital. maybe his father's old friend sir humphrey marlow would help him--'good old sir humphrey, head lieutenant of the late king's kitchen, or stables, or something'--miles could not remember just what or which. now that he had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression which had settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised his head and looked about him. he was surprised to see how far he had come; the village was away behind him. the king was jogging along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans and thinkings. a sorrowful misgiving clouded hendon's new-born cheerfulness: would the boy be willing to go again to a city where, during all his brief life, he had never known anything but ill-usage and pinching want? but the question must be asked; it could not be avoided; so hendon reined up, and called out-- "i had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound. thy commands, my liege!" "to london!" hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the answer--but astounded at it too. the whole journey was made without an adventure of importance. but it ended with one. about ten o'clock on the night of the th of february they stepped upon london bridge, in the midst of a writhing, struggling jam of howling and hurrahing people, whose beer-jolly faces stood out strongly in the glare from manifold torches--and at that instant the decaying head of some former duke or other grandee tumbled down between them, striking hendon on the elbow and then bounding off among the hurrying confusion of feet. so evanescent and unstable are men's works in this world!--the late good king is but three weeks dead and three days in his grave, and already the adornments which he took such pains to select from prominent people for his noble bridge are falling. a citizen stumbled over that head, and drove his own head into the back of somebody in front of him, who turned and knocked down the first person that came handy, and was promptly laid out himself by that person's friend. it was the right ripe time for a free fight, for the festivities of the morrow --coronation day--were already beginning; everybody was full of strong drink and patriotism; within five minutes the free fight was occupying a good deal of ground; within ten or twelve it covered an acre of so, and was become a riot. by this time hendon and the king were hopelessly separated from each other and lost in the rush and turmoil of the roaring masses of humanity. and so we leave them. chapter xxx. tom's progress. whilst the true king wandered about the land poorly clad, poorly fed, cuffed and derided by tramps one while, herding with thieves and murderers in a jail another, and called idiot and impostor by all impartially, the mock king tom canty enjoyed quite a different experience. when we saw him last, royalty was just beginning to have a bright side for him. this bright side went on brightening more and more every day: in a very little while it was become almost all sunshine and delightfulness. he lost his fears; his misgivings faded out and died; his embarrassments departed, and gave place to an easy and confident bearing. he worked the whipping-boy mine to ever-increasing profit. he ordered my lady elizabeth and my lady jane grey into his presence when he wanted to play or talk, and dismissed them when he was done with them, with the air of one familiarly accustomed to such performances. it no longer confused him to have these lofty personages kiss his hand at parting. he came to enjoy being conducted to bed in state at night, and dressed with intricate and solemn ceremony in the morning. it came to be a proud pleasure to march to dinner attended by a glittering procession of officers of state and gentlemen-at-arms; insomuch, indeed, that he doubled his guard of gentlemen-at-arms, and made them a hundred. he liked to hear the bugles sounding down the long corridors, and the distant voices responding, "way for the king!" he even learned to enjoy sitting in throned state in council, and seeming to be something more than the lord protector's mouthpiece. he liked to receive great ambassadors and their gorgeous trains, and listen to the affectionate messages they brought from illustrious monarchs who called him brother. o happy tom canty, late of offal court! he enjoyed his splendid clothes, and ordered more: he found his four hundred servants too few for his proper grandeur, and trebled them. the adulation of salaaming courtiers came to be sweet music to his ears. he remained kind and gentle, and a sturdy and determined champion of all that were oppressed, and he made tireless war upon unjust laws: yet upon occasion, being offended, he could turn upon an earl, or even a duke, and give him a look that would make him tremble. once, when his royal 'sister,' the grimly holy lady mary, set herself to reason with him against the wisdom of his course in pardoning so many people who would otherwise be jailed, or hanged, or burned, and reminded him that their august late father's prisons had sometimes contained as high as sixty thousand convicts at one time, and that during his admirable reign he had delivered seventy-two thousand thieves and robbers over to death by the executioner, { } the boy was filled with generous indignation, and commanded her to go to her closet, and beseech god to take away the stone that was in her breast, and give her a human heart. did tom canty never feel troubled about the poor little rightful prince who had treated him so kindly, and flown out with such hot zeal to avenge him upon the insolent sentinel at the palace-gate? yes; his first royal days and nights were pretty well sprinkled with painful thoughts about the lost prince, and with sincere longings for his return, and happy restoration to his native rights and splendours. but as time wore on, and the prince did not come, tom's mind became more and more occupied with his new and enchanting experiences, and by little and little the vanished monarch faded almost out of his thoughts; and finally, when he did intrude upon them at intervals, he was become an unwelcome spectre, for he made tom feel guilty and ashamed. tom's poor mother and sisters travelled the same road out of his mind. at first he pined for them, sorrowed for them, longed to see them, but later, the thought of their coming some day in their rags and dirt, and betraying him with their kisses, and pulling him down from his lofty place, and dragging him back to penury and degradation and the slums, made him shudder. at last they ceased to trouble his thoughts almost wholly. and he was content, even glad: for, whenever their mournful and accusing faces did rise before him now, they made him feel more despicable than the worms that crawl. at midnight of the th of february, tom canty was sinking to sleep in his rich bed in the palace, guarded by his loyal vassals, and surrounded by the pomps of royalty, a happy boy; for tomorrow was the day appointed for his solemn crowning as king of england. at that same hour, edward, the true king, hungry and thirsty, soiled and draggled, worn with travel, and clothed in rags and shreds--his share of the results of the riot--was wedged in among a crowd of people who were watching with deep interest certain hurrying gangs of workmen who streamed in and out of westminster abbey, busy as ants: they were making the last preparation for the royal coronation. chapter xxxi. the recognition procession. when tom canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy with a thunderous murmur: all the distances were charged with it. it was music to him; for it meant that the english world was out in its strength to give loyal welcome to the great day. presently tom found himself once more the chief figure in a wonderful floating pageant on the thames; for by ancient custom the 'recognition procession' through london must start from the tower, and he was bound thither. when he arrived there, the sides of the venerable fortress seemed suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from every rent leaped a red tongue of flame and a white gush of smoke; a deafening explosion followed, which drowned the shoutings of the multitude, and made the ground tremble; the flame-jets, the smoke, and the explosions, were repeated over and over again with marvellous celerity, so that in a few moments the old tower disappeared in the vast fog of its own smoke, all but the very top of the tall pile called the white tower; this, with its banners, stood out above the dense bank of vapour as a mountain-peak projects above a cloud-rack. tom canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose rich trappings almost reached to the ground; his 'uncle,' the lord protector somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the king's guard formed in single ranks on either side, clad in burnished armour; after the protector followed a seemingly interminable procession of resplendent nobles attended by their vassals; after these came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body, in crimson velvet robes, and with their gold chains across their breasts; and after these the officers and members of all the guilds of london, in rich raiment, and bearing the showy banners of the several corporations. also in the procession, as a special guard of honour through the city, was the ancient and honourable artillery company--an organisation already three hundred years old at that time, and the only military body in england possessing the privilege (which it still possesses in our day) of holding itself independent of the commands of parliament. it was a brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with acclamations all along the line, as it took its stately way through the packed multitudes of citizens. the chronicler says, 'the king, as he entered the city, was received by the people with prayers, welcomings, cries, and tender words, and all signs which argue an earnest love of subjects toward their sovereign; and the king, by holding up his glad countenance to such as stood afar off, and most tender language to those that stood nigh his grace, showed himself no less thankful to receive the people's goodwill than they to offer it. to all that wished him well, he gave thanks. to such as bade "god save his grace," he said in return, "god save you all!" and added that "he thanked them with all his heart." wonderfully transported were the people with the loving answers and gestures of their king.' in fenchurch street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on a stage to welcome his majesty to the city. the last verse of his greeting was in these words-- 'welcome, o king! as much as hearts can think; welcome, again, as much as tongue can tell,--welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not shrink: god thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.' the people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice what the child had said. tom canty gazed abroad over the surging sea of eager faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he felt that the one thing worth living for in this world was to be a king, and a nation's idol. presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a couple of his ragged offal court comrades--one of them the lord high admiral in his late mimic court, the other the first lord of the bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and his pride swelled higher than ever. oh, if they could only recognise him now! what unspeakable glory it would be, if they could recognise him, and realise that the derided mock king of the slums and back alleys was become a real king, with illustrious dukes and princes for his humble menials, and the english world at his feet! but he had to deny himself, and choke down his desire, for such a recognition might cost more than it would come to: so he turned away his head, and left the two soiled lads to go on with their shoutings and glad adulations, unsuspicious of whom it was they were lavishing them upon. every now and then rose the cry, "a largess! a largess!" and tom responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad for the multitude to scramble for. the chronicler says, 'at the upper end of gracechurch street, before the sign of the eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous arch, beneath which was a stage, which stretched from one side of the street to the other. this was an historical pageant, representing the king's immediate progenitors. there sat elizabeth of york in the midst of an immense white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows around her; by her side was henry vii., issuing out of a vast red rose, disposed in the same manner: the hands of the royal pair were locked together, and the wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed. from the red and white roses proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second stage, occupied by henry viii., issuing from a red and white rose, with the effigy of the new king's mother, jane seymour, represented by his side. one branch sprang from this pair, which mounted to a third stage, where sat the effigy of edward vi. himself, enthroned in royal majesty; and the whole pageant was framed with wreaths of roses, red and white.' this quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing people, that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice of the child whose business it was to explain the thing in eulogistic rhymes. but tom canty was not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter music to him than any poetry, no matter what its quality might be. whithersoever tom turned his happy young face, the people recognised the exactness of his effigy's likeness to himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new whirlwinds of applause burst forth. the great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch after another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and symbolical tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue, or talent, or merit, of the little king's. 'throughout the whole of cheapside, from every penthouse and window, hung banners and streamers; and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold tapestried the streets--specimens of the great wealth of the stores within; and the splendour of this thoroughfare was equalled in the other streets, and in some even surpassed.' "and all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me--me!" murmured tom canty. the mock king's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. at this point, just as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he caught sight of a pale, astounded face, which was strained forward out of the second rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon him. a sickening consternation struck through him; he recognised his mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward, before his eyes--that old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten episode, and perpetuated by habit. in an instant more she had torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was at his side. she embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she cried, "o my child, my darling!" lifting toward him a face that was transfigured with joy and love. the same instant an officer of the king's guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her reeling back whence she came with a vigorous impulse from his strong arm. the words "i do not know you, woman!" were falling from tom canty's lips when this piteous thing occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated so; and as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted, that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and withered his stolen royalty. his grandeurs were stricken valueless: they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags. the procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting splendours and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to tom canty they were as if they had not been. he neither saw nor heard. royalty had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach. remorse was eating his heart out. he said, "would god i were free of my captivity!" he had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the first days of his compulsory greatness. the shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old city, and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the king rode with bowed head and vacant eyes, seeing only his mother's face and that wounded look in it. "largess, largess!" the cry fell upon an unheeding ear. "long live edward of england!" it seemed as if the earth shook with the explosion; but there was no response from the king. he heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered under another sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing conscience--a voice which kept repeating those shameful words, "i do not know you, woman!" the words smote upon the king's soul as the strokes of a funeral bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone. new glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new marvels, sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting multitudes: but the king gave no sign, and the accusing voice that went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound he heard. by-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or anxiety: an abatement in the volume of the applause was observable too. the lord protector was quick to notice these things: he was as quick to detect the cause. he spurred to the king's side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said-- "my liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. the people observe thy downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen. be advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these boding vapours, and disperse them. lift up thy face, and smile upon the people." so saying, the duke scattered a handful of coins to right and left, then retired to his place. the mock king did mechanically as he had been bidden. his smile had no heart in it, but few eyes were near enough or sharp enough to detect that. the noddings of his plumed head as he saluted his subjects were full of grace and graciousness; the largess which he delivered from his hand was royally liberal: so the people's anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth again in as mighty a volume as before. still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the duke was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. he whispered-- "o dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the eyes of the world are upon thee." then he added with sharp annoyance, "perdition catch that crazy pauper! 'twas she that hath disturbed your highness." the gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the duke, and said in a dead voice-- "she was my mother!" "my god!" groaned the protector as he reined his horse backward to his post, "the omen was pregnant with prophecy. he is gone mad again!" the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter xxii. a victim of treachery. once more 'king foo-foo the first' was roving with the tramps and outlaws, a butt for their coarse jests and dull-witted railleries, and sometimes the victim of small spitefulness at the hands of canty and hugo when the ruffler's back was turned. none but canty and hugo really disliked him. some of the others liked him, and all admired his pluck and spirit. during two or three days, hugo, in whose ward and charge the king was, did what he covertly could to make the boy uncomfortable; and at night, during the customary orgies, he amused the company by putting small indignities upon him--always as if by accident. twice he stepped upon the king's toes--accidentally--and the king, as became his royalty, was contemptuously unconscious of it and indifferent to it; but the third time hugo entertained himself in that way, the king felled him to the ground with a cudgel, to the prodigious delight of the tribe. hugo, consumed with anger and shame, sprang up, seized a cudgel, and came at his small adversary in a fury. instantly a ring was formed around the gladiators, and the betting and cheering began. but poor hugo stood no chance whatever. his frantic and lubberly 'prentice-work found but a poor market for itself when pitted against an arm which had been trained by the first masters of europe in single-stick, quarter-staff, and every art and trick of swordsmanship. the little king stood, alert but at graceful ease, and caught and turned aside the thick rain of blows with a facility and precision which set the motley on-lookers wild with admiration; and every now and then, when his practised eye detected an opening, and a lightning-swift rap upon hugo's head followed as a result, the storm of cheers and laughter that swept the place was something wonderful to hear. at the end of fifteen minutes, hugo, all battered, bruised, and the target for a pitiless bombardment of ridicule, slunk from the field; and the unscathed hero of the fight was seized and borne aloft upon the shoulders of the joyous rabble to the place of honour beside the ruffler, where with vast ceremony he was crowned king of the game-cocks; his meaner title being at the same time solemnly cancelled and annulled, and a decree of banishment from the gang pronounced against any who should thenceforth utter it. all attempts to make the king serviceable to the troop had failed. he had stubbornly refused to act; moreover, he was always trying to escape. he had been thrust into an unwatched kitchen, the first day of his return; he not only came forth empty-handed, but tried to rouse the housemates. he was sent out with a tinker to help him at his work; he would not work; moreover, he threatened the tinker with his own soldering-iron; and finally both hugo and the tinker found their hands full with the mere matter of keeping his from getting away. he delivered the thunders of his royalty upon the heads of all who hampered his liberties or tried to force him to service. he was sent out, in hugo's charge, in company with a slatternly woman and a diseased baby, to beg; but the result was not encouraging--he declined to plead for the mendicants, or be a party to their cause in any way. thus several days went by; and the miseries of this tramping life, and the weariness and sordidness and meanness and vulgarity of it, became gradually and steadily so intolerable to the captive that he began at last to feel that his release from the hermit's knife must prove only a temporary respite from death, at best. but at night, in his dreams, these things were forgotten, and he was on his throne, and master again. this, of course, intensified the sufferings of the awakening--so the mortifications of each succeeding morning of the few that passed between his return to bondage and the combat with hugo, grew bitterer and bitterer, and harder and harder to bear. the morning after that combat, hugo got up with a heart filled with vengeful purposes against the king. he had two plans, in particular. one was to inflict upon the lad what would be, to his proud spirit and 'imagined' royalty, a peculiar humiliation; and if he failed to accomplish this, his other plan was to put a crime of some kind upon the king, and then betray him into the implacable clutches of the law. in pursuance of the first plan, he purposed to put a 'clime' upon the king's leg; rightly judging that that would mortify him to the last and perfect degree; and as soon as the clime should operate, he meant to get canty's help, and force the king to expose his leg in the highway and beg for alms. 'clime' was the cant term for a sore, artificially created. to make a clime, the operator made a paste or poultice of unslaked lime, soap, and the rust of old iron, and spread it upon a piece of leather, which was then bound tightly upon the leg. this would presently fret off the skin, and make the flesh raw and angry-looking; blood was then rubbed upon the limb, which, being fully dried, took on a dark and repulsive colour. then a bandage of soiled rags was put on in a cleverly careless way which would allow the hideous ulcer to be seen, and move the compassion of the passer-by. { } hugo got the help of the tinker whom the king had cowed with the soldering-iron; they took the boy out on a tinkering tramp, and as soon as they were out of sight of the camp they threw him down and the tinker held him while hugo bound the poultice tight and fast upon his leg. the king raged and stormed, and promised to hang the two the moment the sceptre was in his hand again; but they kept a firm grip upon him and enjoyed his impotent struggling and jeered at his threats. this continued until the poultice began to bite; and in no long time its work would have been perfected, if there had been no interruption. but there was; for about this time the 'slave' who had made the speech denouncing england's laws, appeared on the scene, and put an end to the enterprise, and stripped off the poultice and bandage. the king wanted to borrow his deliverer's cudgel and warm the jackets of the two rascals on the spot; but the man said no, it would bring trouble --leave the matter till night; the whole tribe being together, then, the outside world would not venture to interfere or interrupt. he marched the party back to camp and reported the affair to the ruffler, who listened, pondered, and then decided that the king should not be again detailed to beg, since it was plain he was worthy of something higher and better--wherefore, on the spot he promoted him from the mendicant rank and appointed him to steal! hugo was overjoyed. he had already tried to make the king steal, and failed; but there would be no more trouble of that sort, now, for of course the king would not dream of defying a distinct command delivered directly from head-quarters. so he planned a raid for that very afternoon, purposing to get the king in the law's grip in the course of it; and to do it, too, with such ingenious strategy, that it should seem to be accidental and unintentional; for the king of the game-cocks was popular now, and the gang might not deal over-gently with an unpopular member who played so serious a treachery upon him as the delivering him over to the common enemy, the law. very well. all in good time hugo strolled off to a neighbouring village with his prey; and the two drifted slowly up and down one street after another, the one watching sharply for a sure chance to achieve his evil purpose, and the other watching as sharply for a chance to dart away and get free of his infamous captivity for ever. both threw away some tolerably fair-looking opportunities; for both, in their secret hearts, were resolved to make absolutely sure work this time, and neither meant to allow his fevered desires to seduce him into any venture that had much uncertainty about it. hugo's chance came first. for at last a woman approached who carried a fat package of some sort in a basket. hugo's eyes sparkled with sinful pleasure as he said to himself, "breath o' my life, an' i can but put that upon him, 'tis good-den and god keep thee, king of the game-cocks!" he waited and watched--outwardly patient, but inwardly consuming with excitement--till the woman had passed by, and the time was ripe; then said, in a low voice-- "tarry here till i come again," and darted stealthily after the prey. the king's heart was filled with joy--he could make his escape, now, if hugo's quest only carried him far enough away. but he was to have no such luck. hugo crept behind the woman, snatched the package, and came running back, wrapping it in an old piece of blanket which he carried on his arm. the hue and cry was raised in a moment, by the woman, who knew her loss by the lightening of her burden, although she had not seen the pilfering done. hugo thrust the bundle into the king's hands without halting, saying-- "now speed ye after me with the rest, and cry 'stop thief!' but mind ye lead them astray!" the next moment hugo turned a corner and darted down a crooked alley--and in another moment or two he lounged into view again, looking innocent and indifferent, and took up a position behind a post to watch results. the insulted king threw the bundle on the ground; and the blanket fell away from it just as the woman arrived, with an augmenting crowd at her heels; she seized the king's wrist with one hand, snatched up her bundle with the other, and began to pour out a tirade of abuse upon the boy while he struggled, without success, to free himself from her grip. hugo had seen enough--his enemy was captured and the law would get him, now--so he slipped away, jubilant and chuckling, and wended campwards, framing a judicious version of the matter to give to the ruffler's crew as he strode along. the king continued to struggle in the woman's strong grasp, and now and then cried out in vexation-- "unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not i that bereaved thee of thy paltry goods." the crowd closed around, threatening the king and calling him names; a brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to his elbows, made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him well, for a lesson; but just then a long sword flashed in the air and fell with convincing force upon the man's arm, flat side down, the fantastic owner of it remarking pleasantly, at the same time-- "marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood and uncharitable words. this is matter for the law's consideration, not private and unofficial handling. loose thy hold from the boy, goodwife." the blacksmith averaged the stalwart soldier with a glance, then went muttering away, rubbing his arm; the woman released the boy's wrist reluctantly; the crowd eyed the stranger unlovingly, but prudently closed their mouths. the king sprang to his deliverer's side, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming-- "thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season, now, sir miles; carve me this rabble to rags!" chapter xxiii. the prince a prisoner. hendon forced back a smile, and bent down and whispered in the king's ear-- "softly, softly, my prince, wag thy tongue warily--nay, suffer it not to wag at all. trust in me--all shall go well in the end." then he added to himself: "sir miles! bless me, i had totally forgot i was a knight! lord, how marvellous a thing it is, the grip his memory doth take upon his quaint and crazy fancies! . . . an empty and foolish title is mine, and yet it is something to have deserved it; for i think it is more honour to be held worthy to be a spectre-knight in his kingdom of dreams and shadows, than to be held base enough to be an earl in some of the real kingdoms of this world." the crowd fell apart to admit a constable, who approached and was about to lay his hand upon the king's shoulder, when hendon said-- "gently, good friend, withhold your hand--he shall go peaceably; i am responsible for that. lead on, we will follow." the officer led, with the woman and her bundle; miles and the king followed after, with the crowd at their heels. the king was inclined to rebel; but hendon said to him in a low voice-- "reflect, sire--your laws are the wholesome breath of your own royalty; shall their source resist them, yet require the branches to respect them? apparently one of these laws has been broken; when the king is on his throne again, can it ever grieve him to remember that when he was seemingly a private person he loyally sank the king in the citizen and submitted to its authority?" "thou art right; say no more; thou shalt see that whatsoever the king of england requires a subject to suffer, under the law, he will himself suffer while he holdeth the station of a subject." when the woman was called upon to testify before the justice of the peace, she swore that the small prisoner at the bar was the person who had committed the theft; there was none able to show the contrary, so the king stood convicted. the bundle was now unrolled, and when the contents proved to be a plump little dressed pig, the judge looked troubled, whilst hendon turned pale, and his body was thrilled with an electric shiver of dismay; but the king remained unmoved, protected by his ignorance. the judge meditated, during an ominous pause, then turned to the woman, with the question-- "what dost thou hold this property to be worth?" the woman courtesied and replied-- "three shillings and eightpence, your worship--i could not abate a penny and set forth the value honestly." the justice glanced around uncomfortably upon the crowd, then nodded to the constable, and said-- "clear the court and close the doors." it was done. none remained but the two officials, the accused, the accuser, and miles hendon. this latter was rigid and colourless, and on his forehead big drops of cold sweat gathered, broke and blended together, and trickled down his face. the judge turned to the woman again, and said, in a compassionate voice-- "'tis a poor ignorant lad, and mayhap was driven hard by hunger, for these be grievous times for the unfortunate; mark you, he hath not an evil face--but when hunger driveth--good woman! dost know that when one steals a thing above the value of thirteenpence ha'penny the law saith he shall hang for it?" the little king started, wide-eyed with consternation, but controlled himself and held his peace; but not so the woman. she sprang to her feet, shaking with fright, and cried out-- "oh, good lack, what have i done! god-a-mercy, i would not hang the poor thing for the whole world! ah, save me from this, your worship--what shall i do, what can i do?" the justice maintained his judicial composure, and simply said-- "doubtless it is allowable to revise the value, since it is not yet writ upon the record." "then in god's name call the pig eightpence, and heaven bless the day that freed my conscience of this awesome thing!" miles hendon forgot all decorum in his delight; and surprised the king and wounded his dignity, by throwing his arms around him and hugging him. the woman made her grateful adieux and started away with her pig; and when the constable opened the door for her, he followed her out into the narrow hall. the justice proceeded to write in his record book. hendon, always alert, thought he would like to know why the officer followed the woman out; so he slipped softly into the dusky hall and listened. he heard a conversation to this effect-- "it is a fat pig, and promises good eating; i will buy it of thee; here is the eightpence." "eightpence, indeed! thou'lt do no such thing. it cost me three shillings and eightpence, good honest coin of the last reign, that old harry that's just dead ne'er touched or tampered with. a fig for thy eightpence!" "stands the wind in that quarter? thou wast under oath, and so swore falsely when thou saidst the value was but eightpence. come straightway back with me before his worship, and answer for the crime!--and then the lad will hang." "there, there, dear heart, say no more, i am content. give me the eightpence, and hold thy peace about the matter." the woman went off crying: hendon slipped back into the court room, and the constable presently followed, after hiding his prize in some convenient place. the justice wrote a while longer, then read the king a wise and kindly lecture, and sentenced him to a short imprisonment in the common jail, to be followed by a public flogging. the astounded king opened his mouth, and was probably going to order the good judge to be beheaded on the spot; but he caught a warning sign from hendon, and succeeded in closing his mouth again before he lost anything out of it. hendon took him by the hand, now, made reverence to the justice, and the two departed in the wake of the constable toward the jail. the moment the street was reached, the inflamed monarch halted, snatched away his hand, and exclaimed-- "idiot, dost imagine i will enter a common jail alive?" hendon bent down and said, somewhat sharply-- "will you trust in me? peace! and forbear to worsen our chances with dangerous speech. what god wills, will happen; thou canst not hurry it, thou canst not alter it; therefore wait, and be patient--'twill be time enow to rail or rejoice when what is to happen has happened." { } chapter xxiv. the escape. the short winter day was nearly ended. the streets were deserted, save for a few random stragglers, and these hurried straight along, with the intent look of people who were only anxious to accomplish their errands as quickly as possible, and then snugly house themselves from the rising wind and the gathering twilight. they looked neither to the right nor to the left; they paid no attention to our party, they did not even seem to see them. edward the sixth wondered if the spectacle of a king on his way to jail had ever encountered such marvellous indifference before. by-and-by the constable arrived at a deserted market-square, and proceeded to cross it. when he had reached the middle of it, hendon laid his hand upon his arm, and said in a low voice-- "bide a moment, good sir, there is none in hearing, and i would say a word to thee." "my duty forbids it, sir; prithee hinder me not, the night comes on." "stay, nevertheless, for the matter concerns thee nearly. turn thy back a moment and seem not to see: let this poor lad escape." "this to me, sir! i arrest thee in--" "nay, be not too hasty. see thou be careful and commit no foolish error"--then he shut his voice down to a whisper, and said in the man's ear--"the pig thou hast purchased for eightpence may cost thee thy neck, man!" the poor constable, taken by surprise, was speechless, at first, then found his tongue and fell to blustering and threatening; but hendon was tranquil, and waited with patience till his breath was spent; then said-- "i have a liking to thee, friend, and would not willingly see thee come to harm. observe, i heard it all--every word. i will prove it to thee." then he repeated the conversation which the officer and the woman had had together in the hall, word for word, and ended with-- "there--have i set it forth correctly? should not i be able to set it forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?" the man was dumb with fear and distress, for a moment; then he rallied, and said with forced lightness-- "'tis making a mighty matter, indeed, out of a jest; i but plagued the woman for mine amusement." "kept you the woman's pig for amusement?" the man answered sharply-- "nought else, good sir--i tell thee 'twas but a jest." "i do begin to believe thee," said hendon, with a perplexing mixture of mockery and half-conviction in his tone; "but tarry thou here a moment whilst i run and ask his worship--for nathless, he being a man experienced in law, in jests, in--" he was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated, fidgeted, spat out an oath or two, then cried out-- "hold, hold, good sir--prithee wait a little--the judge! why, man, he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse!--come, and we will speak further. ods body! i seem to be in evil case--and all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry. i am a man of family; and my wife and little ones--list to reason, good your worship: what wouldst thou of me?" "only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may count a hundred thousand--counting slowly," said hendon, with the expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favour, and that a very little one. "it is my destruction!" said the constable despairingly. "ah, be reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides, and see how mere a jest it is--how manifestly and how plainly it is so. and even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small that e'en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a rebuke and warning from the judge's lips." hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him-- "this jest of thine hath a name, in law,--wot you what it is?" "i knew it not! peradventure i have been unwise. i never dreamed it had a name--ah, sweet heaven, i thought it was original." "yes, it hath a name. in the law this crime is called non compos mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria mundi." "ah, my god!" "and the penalty is death!" "god be merciful to me a sinner!" "by advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteenpence ha'penny, paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law, is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo--and the penalty is death by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy." "bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! be thou merciful--spare me this doom, and i will turn my back and see nought that shall happen." "good! now thou'rt wise and reasonable. and thou'lt restore the pig?" "i will, i will indeed--nor ever touch another, though heaven send it and an archangel fetch it. go--i am blind for thy sake--i see nothing. i will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my hands by force. it is but a crazy, ancient door--i will batter it down myself betwixt midnight and the morning." "do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break no jailer's bones for his escape." chapter xxv. hendon hall. as soon as hendon and the king were out of sight of the constable, his majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the town, and wait there, whilst hendon should go to the inn and settle his account. half an hour later the two friends were blithely jogging eastward on hendon's sorry steeds. the king was warm and comfortable, now, for he had cast his rags and clothed himself in the second-hand suit which hendon had bought on london bridge. hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of sleep would be bad for his crazed mind; whilst rest, regularity, and moderate exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he longed to see the stricken intellect made well again and its diseased visions driven out of the tormented little head; therefore he resolved to move by easy stages toward the home whence he had so long been banished, instead of obeying the impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and day. when he and the king had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good inn. the former relations were resumed; hendon stood behind the king's chair, while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was ready for bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket. the next day, and the day after, they jogged lazily along talking over the adventures they had met since their separation, and mightily enjoying each other's narratives. hendon detailed all his wide wanderings in search of the king, and described how the archangel had led him a fool's journey all over the forest, and taken him back to the hut, finally, when he found he could not get rid of him. then--he said--the old man went into the bedchamber and came staggering back looking broken-hearted, and saying he had expected to find that the boy had returned and laid down in there to rest, but it was not so. hendon had waited at the hut all day; hope of the king's return died out, then, and he departed upon the quest again. "and old sanctum sanctorum was truly sorry your highness came not back," said hendon; "i saw it in his face." "marry i will never doubt that!" said the king--and then told his own story; after which, hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the archangel. during the last day of the trip, hendon's spirits were soaring. his tongue ran constantly. he talked about his old father, and his brother arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies over his edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to say some gentle and brotherly things about hugh. he dwelt a deal on the coming meeting at hendon hall; what a surprise it would be to everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight there would be. it was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the road led through broad pasture lands whose receding expanses, marked with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and subsiding undulations of the sea. in the afternoon the returning prodigal made constant deflections from his course to see if by ascending some hillock he might not pierce the distance and catch a glimpse of his home. at last he was successful, and cried out excitedly-- "there is the village, my prince, and there is the hall close by! you may see the towers from here; and that wood there--that is my father's park. ah, now thou'lt know what state and grandeur be! a house with seventy rooms--think of that!--and seven and twenty servants! a brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? come, let us speed--my impatience will not brook further delay." all possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o'clock before the village was reached. the travellers scampered through it, hendon's tongue going all the time. "here is the church--covered with the same ivy--none gone, none added." "yonder is the inn, the old red lion,--and yonder is the market-place." "here is the maypole, and here the pump --nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these i seem to know, but none know me." so his chat ran on. the end of the village was soon reached; then the travellers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for half a mile, then passed into a vast flower garden through an imposing gateway, whose huge stone pillars bore sculptured armorial devices. a noble mansion was before them. "welcome to hendon hall, my king!" exclaimed miles. "ah, 'tis a great day! my father and my brother, and the lady edith will be so mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in the first transports of the meeting, and so thou'lt seem but coldly welcomed--but mind it not; 'twill soon seem otherwise; for when i say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love for thee, thou'lt see them take thee to their breasts for miles hendon's sake, and make their house and hearts thy home for ever after!" the next moment hendon sprang to the ground before the great door, helped the king down, then took him by the hand and rushed within. a few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated the king with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs. "embrace me, hugh," he cried, "and say thou'rt glad i am come again! and call our father, for home is not home till i shall touch his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!" but hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and bent a grave stare upon the intruder--a stare which indicated somewhat of offended dignity, at first, then changed, in response to some inward thought or purpose, to an expression of marvelling curiosity, mixed with a real or assumed compassion. presently he said, in a mild voice-- "thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world's hands; thy looks and dress betoken it. whom dost thou take me to be?" "take thee? prithee for whom else than whom thou art? i take thee to be hugh hendon," said miles, sharply. the other continued, in the same soft tone-- "and whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?" "imagination hath nought to do with it! dost thou pretend thou knowest me not for thy brother miles hendon?" an expression of pleased surprise flitted across hugh's face, and he exclaimed-- "what! thou art not jesting? can the dead come to life? god be praised if it be so! our poor lost boy restored to our arms after all these cruel years! ah, it seems too good to be true, it is too good to be true--i charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with me! quick--come to the light--let me scan thee well!" he seized miles by the arm, dragged him to the window, and began to devour him from head to foot with his eyes, turning him this way and that, and stepping briskly around him and about him to prove him from all points of view; whilst the returned prodigal, all aglow with gladness, smiled, laughed, and kept nodding his head and saying-- "go on, brother, go on, and fear not; thou'lt find nor limb nor feature that cannot bide the test. scour and scan me to thy content, my good old hugh--i am indeed thy old miles, thy same old miles, thy lost brother, is't not so? ah, 'tis a great day--i said 'twas a great day! give me thy hand, give me thy cheek--lord, i am like to die of very joy!" he was about to throw himself upon his brother; but hugh put up his hand in dissent, then dropped his chin mournfully upon his breast, saying with emotion-- "ah, god of his mercy give me strength to bear this grievous disappointment!" miles, amazed, could not speak for a moment; then he found his tongue, and cried out-- "what disappointment? am i not thy brother?" hugh shook his head sadly, and said-- "i pray heaven it may prove so, and that other eyes may find the resemblances that are hid from mine. alack, i fear me the letter spoke but too truly." "what letter?" "one that came from over sea, some six or seven years ago. it said my brother died in battle." "it was a lie! call thy father--he will know me." "one may not call the dead." "dead?" miles's voice was subdued, and his lips trembled. "my father dead!--oh, this is heavy news. half my new joy is withered now. prithee let me see my brother arthur--he will know me; he will know me and console me." "he, also, is dead." "god be merciful to me, a stricken man! gone,--both gone--the worthy taken and the worthless spared, in me! ah! i crave your mercy!--do not say the lady edith--" "is dead? no, she lives." "then, god be praised, my joy is whole again! speed thee, brother--let her come to me! an' she say i am not myself--but she will not; no, no, she will know me, i were a fool to doubt it. bring her--bring the old servants; they, too, will know me." "all are gone but five--peter, halsey, david, bernard, and margaret." so saying, hugh left the room. miles stood musing a while, then began to walk the floor, muttering-- "the five arch-villains have survived the two-and-twenty leal and honest --'tis an odd thing." he continued walking back and forth, muttering to himself; he had forgotten the king entirely. by-and-by his majesty said gravely, and with a touch of genuine compassion, though the words themselves were capable of being interpreted ironically-- "mind not thy mischance, good man; there be others in the world whose identity is denied, and whose claims are derided. thou hast company." "ah, my king," cried hendon, colouring slightly, "do not thou condemn me --wait, and thou shalt see. i am no impostor--she will say it; you shall hear it from the sweetest lips in england. i an impostor? why, i know this old hall, these pictures of my ancestors, and all these things that are about us, as a child knoweth its own nursery. here was i born and bred, my lord; i speak the truth; i would not deceive thee; and should none else believe, i pray thee do not thou doubt me--i could not bear it." "i do not doubt thee," said the king, with a childlike simplicity and faith. "i thank thee out of my heart!" exclaimed hendon with a fervency which showed that he was touched. the king added, with the same gentle simplicity-- "dost thou doubt me?" a guilty confusion seized upon hendon, and he was grateful that the door opened to admit hugh, at that moment, and saved him the necessity of replying. a beautiful lady, richly clothed, followed hugh, and after her came several liveried servants. the lady walked slowly, with her head bowed and her eyes fixed upon the floor. the face was unspeakably sad. miles hendon sprang forward, crying out-- "oh, my edith, my darling--" but hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady-- "look upon him. do you know him?" at the sound of miles's voice the woman had started slightly, and her cheeks had flushed; she was trembling now. she stood still, during an impressive pause of several moments; then slowly lifted up her head and looked into hendon's eyes with a stony and frightened gaze; the blood sank out of her face, drop by drop, till nothing remained but the grey pallor of death; then she said, in a voice as dead as the face, "i know him not!" and turned, with a moan and a stifled sob, and tottered out of the room. miles hendon sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. after a pause, his brother said to the servants-- "you have observed him. do you know him?" they shook their heads; then the master said-- "the servants know you not, sir. i fear there is some mistake. you have seen that my wife knew you not." "thy wife!" in an instant hugh was pinned to the wall, with an iron grip about his throat. "oh, thou fox-hearted slave, i see it all! thou'st writ the lying letter thyself, and my stolen bride and goods are its fruit. there--now get thee gone, lest i shame mine honourable soldiership with the slaying of so pitiful a mannikin!" hugh, red-faced, and almost suffocated, reeled to the nearest chair, and commanded the servants to seize and bind the murderous stranger. they hesitated, and one of them said-- "he is armed, sir hugh, and we are weaponless." "armed! what of it, and ye so many? upon him, i say!" but miles warned them to be careful what they did, and added-- "ye know me of old--i have not changed; come on, an' it like you." this reminder did not hearten the servants much; they still held back. "then go, ye paltry cowards, and arm yourselves and guard the doors, whilst i send one to fetch the watch!" said hugh. he turned at the threshold, and said to miles, "you'll find it to your advantage to offend not with useless endeavours at escape." "escape? spare thyself discomfort, an' that is all that troubles thee. for miles hendon is master of hendon hall and all its belongings. he will remain--doubt it not." chapter xxvi. disowned. the king sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said-- "'tis strange--most strange. i cannot account for it." "no, it is not strange, my liege. i know him, and this conduct is but natural. he was a rascal from his birth." "oh, i spake not of him, sir miles." "not of him? then of what? what is it that is strange?" "that the king is not missed." "how? which? i doubt i do not understand." "indeed? doth it not strike you as being passing strange that the land is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my person and making search for me? is it no matter for commotion and distress that the head of the state is gone; that i am vanished away and lost?" "most true, my king, i had forgot." then hendon sighed, and muttered to himself, "poor ruined mind--still busy with its pathetic dream." "but i have a plan that shall right us both--i will write a paper, in three tongues--latin, greek and english--and thou shalt haste away with it to london in the morning. give it to none but my uncle, the lord hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and say i wrote it. then he will send for me." "might it not be best, my prince, that we wait here until i prove myself and make my rights secure to my domains? i should be so much the better able then to--" the king interrupted him imperiously-- "peace! what are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests, contrasted with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the integrity of a throne?" then, he added, in a gentle voice, as if he were sorry for his severity, "obey, and have no fear; i will right thee, i will make thee whole--yes, more than whole. i shall remember, and requite." so saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work. hendon contemplated him lovingly a while, then said to himself-- "an' it were dark, i should think it was a king that spoke; there's no denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth thunder and lighten like your true king; now where got he that trick? see him scribble and scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them to be latin and greek--and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky device for diverting him from his purpose, i shall be forced to pretend to post away to-morrow on this wild errand he hath invented for me." the next moment sir miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent episode. so absorbed was he in his musings, that when the king presently handed him the paper which he had been writing, he received it and pocketed it without being conscious of the act. "how marvellous strange she acted," he muttered. "i think she knew me--and i think she did not know me. these opinions do conflict, i perceive it plainly; i cannot reconcile them, neither can i, by argument, dismiss either of the two, or even persuade one to outweigh the other. the matter standeth simply thus: she must have known my face, my figure, my voice, for how could it be otherwise? yet she said she knew me not, and that is proof perfect, for she cannot lie. but stop--i think i begin to see. peradventure he hath influenced her, commanded her, compelled her to lie. that is the solution. the riddle is unriddled. she seemed dead with fear--yes, she was under his compulsion. i will seek her; i will find her; now that he is away, she will speak her true mind. she will remember the old times when we were little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart, and she will no more betray me, but will confess me. there is no treacherous blood in her--no, she was always honest and true. she has loved me, in those old days--this is my security; for whom one has loved, one cannot betray." he stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened, and the lady edith entered. she was very pale, but she walked with a firm step, and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity. her face was as sad as before. miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but she checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped where he was. she seated herself, and asked him to do likewise. thus simply did she take the sense of old comradeship out of him, and transform him into a stranger and a guest. the surprise of it, the bewildering unexpectedness of it, made him begin to question, for a moment, if he was the person he was pretending to be, after all. the lady edith said-- "sir, i have come to warn you. the mad cannot be persuaded out of their delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded to avoid perils. i think this dream of yours hath the seeming of honest truth to you, and therefore is not criminal--but do not tarry here with it; for here it is dangerous." she looked steadily into miles's face a moment, then added, impressively, "it is the more dangerous for that you are much like what our lost lad must have grown to be if he had lived." "heavens, madam, but i am he!" "i truly think you think it, sir. i question not your honesty in that; i but warn you, that is all. my husband is master in this region; his power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or starve, as he wills. if you resembled not the man whom you profess to be, my husband might bid you pleasure yourself with your dream in peace; but trust me, i know him well; i know what he will do; he will say to all that you are but a mad impostor, and straightway all will echo him." she bent upon miles that same steady look once more, and added: "if you were miles hendon, and he knew it and all the region knew it--consider what i am saying, weigh it well--you would stand in the same peril, your punishment would be no less sure; he would deny you and denounce you, and none would be bold enough to give you countenance." "most truly i believe it," said miles, bitterly. "the power that can command one life-long friend to betray and disown another, and be obeyed, may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and life are on the stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honour are concerned." a faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady's cheek, and she dropped her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion when she proceeded-- "i have warned you--i must still warn you--to go hence. this man will destroy you, else. he is a tyrant who knows no pity. i, who am his fettered slave, know this. poor miles, and arthur, and my dear guardian, sir richard, are free of him, and at rest: better that you were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of this miscreant. your pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions; you have assaulted him in his own house: you are ruined if you stay. go--do not hesitate. if you lack money, take this purse, i beg of you, and bribe the servants to let you pass. oh, be warned, poor soul, and escape while you may." miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood before her. "grant me one thing," he said. "let your eyes rest upon mine, so that i may see if they be steady. there--now answer me. am i miles hendon?" "no. i know you not." "swear it!" the answer was low, but distinct-- "i swear." "oh, this passes belief!" "fly! why will you waste the precious time? fly, and save yourself." at that moment the officers burst into the room, and a violent struggle began; but hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away. the king was taken also, and both were bound and led to prison. [transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected.] [illustration: "well, yer can 'ave him: the worst on't is the gal; she'll take on if i say yes, awful."--p. .] _mother-meg_ or, _the story of dickie's attic_ by catharine shaw author of "only a cousin," "alick's hero," "nellie arundel," "the galled farm," etc., etc. new edition _london_: john f. shaw and co., , paternoster row, e.c. shaw's new gift series. forming most attractive presentation volumes. series =a=. _in bevelled boards, gilt edges, price half-a-crown each. also issued in cloth, plain edges_. . scamp and i. a story of city byways, by l. t. meade. . friends or foes. a story for boys and girls e. everett-green. . jonas haggerley. the story of £ reward j. jackson wray. . the lost jewel. a tale a. l. o. e. . our captain; or, the hero of barton school m. l. ridley. . mistress margery. a tale of the lollards e. s. holt. . the earls of the village. a tale agnes giberne. . cabin and castle; or, barney's story e. a. bland. . i will. a true story for boys arthur hall. . ida's secret; or, the towers of ickledale agnes giberne. . water gipsies; adventures of tagrag and bobtail l. t. meade. . cripple jess; the hop-picker's daughter l. marston. . the gabled farm; young workers for the king catharine shaw. . love's labour; or, the caged linnet m. leathes. . the three chums. a school story m. l. ridley. . true to the end. the story of a sister's love dr. edersheim. . floss silverthorn; the little handmaid agnes giberne. . worth the winning; or, rewarded at last emma hornibrook. . a forgotten hero; or, not for him emily s. holt. . marcella of rome. a tale of the early church f. eastwood. . in the desert. a tale of the huguenots d. alcock. . nobody's lad. a story of the big city leslie keith. . madge hardwicke; or, mists of the valley agnes giberne. . our soldier hero. the story of my brothers m. l. ridley. . cousin dora; or, serving the king emily brodie. . brave geordie. the story of an english boy g. stebbing. . marjory and muriel; or, two london homes e. everett-green. . life in a nutshell. a story agnes giberne. . gipsy mike; or, firm as a rock anon. . david's little lad. a story of a noble deed l. t. meade. . silverdale rectory; or, the golden links g. stebbing. . alick's hero; or, the two friends catharine shaw. . lonely jack, and his friends at sunnyside emily brodie. . will foster of the ferry. a story agnes giberne. . sent to coventry; or, the boys of highbeech m. l. ridley. . froggy's little brother. a story brenda. . twice rescued. the story of tino n. cornwall. . in the sunlight. a year of my life's story catharine shaw. . old chickweed; or, the story told e. a. bland. . through the storm; or, the lord's prisoners emily s. holt. . the old house in the city; or, not forsaken agnes giberne. . king's scholars; or, faithful unto death m. l. ridley. . jean lindsay, the vicar's daughter emily brodie. . seeketh not her own. an old time story m. l. sitwell. . mother-meg. the story of dickie's attic catharine shaw. =london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c.= =_and all booksellers_=. . [illustration] contents. chap. page i. pitiless ii. the wedding-day iii. the lost brooch iv. royal children v. a few shirts vi. a lodger vii. the empty pan viii. gone ix. meg's tea-party x. turning a new leaf xi. a midnight bargain xii. "inasmuch" xiii. dickie's attic xiv. in the hospital xv. the empty cradle xvi. "they shall see his face" xvii. cherry's apology xviii. meg's savings xix. listening xx. earth's song and heaven's echo [illustration] mother-meg: the story of dickie's attic. chapter i. pitiless. "put 'im down, 'e can walk as well as anythink." it was a cold day in may, when the sun was hidden behind leaden clouds, and the wind swept along the streets as if determined to clear them of every loiterer who should venture to assure himself that it was not march, and could not be so cold. the few people who had ventured out in spring clothing bid fair to "repent it many a day," and those who were happy enough to have winter wraps drew them closer, and hurried along, the sooner to get into some shelter. the omnibus men dashed their arms across their breasts for warmth, and everybody, gentle or simple, looked nipped up with the strong east wind. "put 'im down," said a hard-featured woman, who was walking slowly along by the side of the road; "it won't matter 'is walkin' now." the man thus addressed was a thin, brow-beaten looking individual, who was carrying a child of some three years old in his arms. his clothes were threadbare, his knees peeped through his worn trousers, and his whole appearance was most deplorable. the woman by his side was as poorly clad as himself, outwardly at least, but seemed to suffer less from it. she was not thin, and if looked at closely, appeared to be well fed, and perhaps to have no lack of drink either. she carried a small infant in her arms, wrapped in a large dirty shawl. the three-year-old child had a pale, suffering little face, which looked as if tears were often very near. his eyes were terribly weak, and when he was set down by the man he looked as if he would have fallen. but the woman disengaged one of her hands, and said impatiently, dragging him towards her, "come along, dickie, none o' yer nonsense; walk on like a good boy." the child gave one glance at her stern face, and then tottered on silently, occasionally rubbing his poor little eyes with the back of his tiny hand. the wind met them round the corners; it seemed to be everywhere, and at every gust the miserable-looking party looked more miserable still. "how much 'ave yer took?" asked the man, as if he could turn and run home. the woman felt for her pocket, and after some fumbling she said in a low voice, "two-and-eight, i should think." "won't that do?" said the man, shivering. then glancing sideways at the child, he went on, "'e'll not walk many more steps, and if you don't take care 'e'll not be hout to-morrer, nor next day neither; 'e's most done, 'e is." the woman turned round and was going to speak, when a respectable couple, dressed in warm cloth, silks, and furs, came in sight. in a moment her manner changed. "take 'im up," she said in a wheedling tone, "'e's tired, 'e is, and cold; carry 'im a bit, george." the child, too cold and weary to care, was taken resistlessly into the man's arms, and laid his head on his shoulder, and the party paused, looking expectantly at the lady and gentleman who were fast approaching. "my good woman, this is a bitter day for such little ones to be out," said the gentleman kindly; "have you far to go?" "over london bridge, sir, down that way." "that's a long distance," he exclaimed; "and you all look perished with the cold." "that we are, sir," answered the woman, sniffing, "and my good man, sir, just now was a-saying that though we hadn't took a ha'penny, sir, this day, we must give it up. but it's hard to see 'em suffer, sir, and have no bread nor firing to give 'em." the man shook his head dolorously at each sentence, and the weak little child shut his eyes, as a fresh gust of wind seemed ready to blind him altogether. "that child ought not to be out on such a day as this at all," said the lady almost severely. "what is poor folk to do, my lady?" asked the woman, "there's no work, and there's no food; and surely we'd be better to get a bit of broken victuals or a copper from some christian gentleman than to starve at home, like rats in a hole!" "well, well," said the gentleman with a ponderous sigh, "it makes one's heart ache, clarissa. here, my good woman, go home now and buy some food and coals, and get that poor child warm." he gave her a shilling and passed on, and the woman, catching sight of a policeman whom she recognized bearing down upon them, they hastily turned the other way and set off in the direction of london bridge as fast as they could go. the man knew it was useless to put dickie down to walk, for he had seen all day that the child was very ill. his light weight, however, was not a great trouble, for he was very small for his age, and now was so thin and emaciated with hardship that the man doubted if he should ever carry him again. "i wish yer'd git some one else," he exclaimed at last, for some remnants of humanity were left in his heart, and he had not carried that tender little mite for six months without some feeling as near akin to love as he was capable of. his wife turned on him sharply. "yer know we can't! there's lots o' reasons why 'e is the best one as we can git. look at them soft brown curls of 'is, what allers takes the ladies, and 'is small size for carryin'; and then yer know as well as i do as 'is mother's dead, and 'is father ain't of no account, and is glad to git a pint or two in return for our havin' 'im. i wish you wouldn't be such a simpleton, george." the man sighed. long ago he had given up contending with his imperious wife, but sometimes as now, he walked along morosely, and his thoughts were best known to himself. "i'd save 'im from it if i could," he muttered to himself, "but i've thought that 'afore, and it ain't no use. still i shan't forgit--though i ain't no good at anythink now." they had now reached london bridge, and soon after turned down one of the narrow streets leading from the main thoroughfare, and again under a long low archway running beneath the first floor rooms of one of the houses, and so emerged into a court squalid and forlorn, which contained the house they called home. just as they were turning in at the door a crippled child of some thirteen or fourteen years came down the stairs to meet them. she silently held out her arms for little dickie, and without vouchsafing more than one dark look at the woman's face, and then another hopeless one at her little brother's, she slowly ascended again, step by step, till weary and panting she laid him down on an old mattress in the corner of the crowded room where she lived. "dickie," she moaned, burying her face in his neck, where the soft waves of his golden-brown hair felt like silk against it, "dickie, are they goin' to kill you right out? dickie----!" [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. the wedding-day. "i mean to take care of you, my girl; leastways i'll do my best." the words were spoken by a man of about twenty-five, in a workman's dress, as he led his bride in at the door of her future home. "i know that," she answered, looking up almost wistfully, for there had been a different tone in the ending of his sentence to that in which it had begun. "it's not such a place as i should like to ha' brought you to, meg; but work's been slack, and--there, you know all that!" meg stepped in and looked around; her glance was shy and somewhat fearful. should she be afraid to see what her young husband had prepared for her? she clasped his hand tightly, and the firm pressure in return reassured her. whatever it might be, love had done it from beginning to end. for meg had come out of the sweet country with its sunny meadows, and cowslips and buttercups. she had left, fifty miles away, the dear fragrant garden, where only this morning her mother had gathered such a posie as had never been seen before; she had left the cottage where every china mug and shepherdess was like a bit of her life; she had left the situation in the grand house at the end of her mother's garden, where she had lived for four years in the midst of every luxury. and this is what she had come to: two small rooms in a high london house, in one of the streets turning out of a wide but gone-down thoroughfare near london bridge. the rooms were on the second floor, and looked out front and back, and as her husband ushered her in and closed the door, she knew she had come home. he led her to the fire, where already a kettle was singing blithely, placed there in readiness by some one as yet unknown to meg, and then he put his arm round her and whispered, "does it all seem very different to what you thought, my dear?" "oh, no," said meg, leaning against his shoulder and looking round; "it's ever so nice. and how could you think of all these things by yourself, jem?" he laughed nervously, and her glance continued to take in all the things one by one. the little chiffonier which he had bought at a second-hand shop with such pride, because meg's mother had one just like it; the bright-burning grate, with its little oven and boiler; the two american arm-chairs, looking so inviting by it; the large rag hearthrug, the strips of clean carpet on each side of the table, the red table-cloth, the freshly-scrubbed shelves, on which quite an array of pretty new crockery was set out. yes, it was home. meg looked up in her husband's face with a satisfied glance. "it is beautiful," she said, taking possession of it all with her heart. hers and his, their home, for as long as god willed it. perhaps something of that thought shone in the man's eyes as he stooped to kiss her upturned face. so meg put down her bunch of home flowers, and looked round for something to put them in. "they are too many for a vase," she said, "or a jug either. i wonder if there's a basin?" jem went to a cupboard in the corner and produced a nice-sized one, neither too large nor too small. "oh!" said meg, gratified; "what a lot of basins and things, jem; i shall make you some puddings in those." "i reckon you will," he answered smiling. she bent over her flowers, touching them with soft tender touch, for she loved each one, and he stood looking on. could this sweet girl really belong to him? then a thought came over him with a pang, of what the women grew into around them--the toiling, hard-working, ill-fed, sometimes ill-used women. "but meg will never grow like that," he thought; "not while i love her, and god loves her; and his love is a never-ending love." "ain't you going in t'other room to take off yer bonnet, my dear?" he asked; "or are the flowers too precious?" "don't you see," she answered, smiling, "my bonnet won't fade, and these will; so i thought i would do them first." "i told mother to come and take a cup o' tea with us at five o'clock; it must be near that now." he drew out a clumsy, old-fashioned watch from his pocket and glanced at it. "it wants nigh on twenty minutes to, my girl, so if we mean to get out our things we must be quick." "these are done now," she answered, gathering up the bits and putting them into the fire, where they crackled up into a blaze and made the kettle boil up in good earnest. so she took off her bonnet, and when she came back jem had put a small square hamper on the table ready for her to open. "do you think mother would like to see what my mistress has given me?" she asked a little timidly; for "mother" was a new word to her lips; hitherto it had always been "your mother." "i dare say she would, meg; and tea don't matter for a few minutes." so meg left the hamper untouched and went to the cupboard where she had seen the cups, and began to set three on a small tray she found there. "here is some milk, jem!" she exclaimed; "how kind your mother is; and some bread and butter too all ready." "mother's in general very thoughtful," he answered, going over to her and lifting the tray to the chiffonier. "it will be handy there, against we have cleared the table." at this moment there was a knock at the door, which jem hastened to answer by opening it wide. "i've brought her," he said, by way of introduction. and then mrs. seymour saw her new daughter-in-law for the first time. that slim graceful figure, clothed in a simple, plainly-made dress of some mixture of grey and brown, which meg had decided on for her wedding dress, because it would wear well in london, and then the blushing gentle face above it. jem had not said a word too much in her praise, as far as she could judge by the first glance. "welcome, my dear," she said, advancing and kissing her; "i'm glad as my jem is made happy at last." "we waited for you, mother," said jem, when he had placed her in the arm-chair, "because meg thought as you'd like to see the things unpacked; they was put in by mrs. macdonald's own hands." "that i should," answered mrs. seymour heartily, drawing nearer to the table; "what is it?" "i don't know," answered meg; "she called me in this morning and she said, 'archer,'--you know it was only mother called me meg at home; at mistress's i was always called archer, so she said, 'archer, i've put you in a few things to begin on, and so that you will not have to begin cooking at once. remember, however, that a workman's wages will not buy these sort of things. it is only as a little wedding treat.'" "that's very true," said mrs. seymour, referring to the wages. "ah, we know that," answered meg cheerfully, with a bright glance at jem; "but it's very kind of her all the same." by this time jem had undone the strings, and the hamper lay open before them. first there were a couple of fine chickens all ready cooked, done up in a clean cloth; then there were some sausages; after that a blancmange in a basin; then a bottle of cream; and lastly, some fresh butter and a box of new-laid eggs. underneath everything else was a flat parcel tied up in pieces of thin board. "a wedding present to margaret archer, as a mark of mrs. macdonald's esteem, wishing her and her husband every happiness." "oh!" exclaimed meg; "she said i should find her present at home! jem, whatever can it be?" "i guess," said jem, trying to get his fingers underneath it to lift it up. but he had to find another way, for the package resisted his efforts by sticking close to the bottom of the hamper as if it were glued. "it's mighty heavy," he said. and then they found that the strings had been so placed as to allow of its being easily lifted out by them. "a clock!" said mrs. seymour, delighted. "oh, jem, how i did want to get you a clock, but i could not manage it anyhow." he put his broad hand on hers gratefully. "i know, mother," he answered. "don't ye think as i've eyes to see as all these things wasn't here when i left here last evening?" a sweet smile came over the worn face, and with almost an arch look she answered, "there's a certain bag in my drawer that used to be pretty heavy once, that i kept to buy things for 'jem's wife.' it's empty now though." "for me?" asked meg; and then she blushed so much that she had to help jem very industriously to undo the knots in the strings. "for you," answered her mother-in-law. and when jem lifted out the present, they found it was a very nice clock, which would strike the hours. "shall i move this on one side?" asked meg, touching the vase in the centre of the mantel-shelf. "put it on the chiffonier," said jem, placing the clock where she had made room for it. "don't it look handsome?" after they had all admired it till they had no more words at their command, meg turned to the basket again. "jem, we must have one of these fowls to-night for tea, because mother is here." "you're very kind, my dear," said mrs. seymour, "but i don't wish to eat up your good things." "who should enjoy them if not you?" asked meg heartily, quickly clearing away the papers and things, and placing the hamper tidily in a corner. she spread the cloth and set out the fowl on one of the dishes, putting the sausages round as a garnish; then she poured out some cream, and found a plate for the country butter, which quite ornamented the table, with its pretty cow resting on the circle of grass. "my mother put us in a loaf of her home-made bread," she exclaimed, turning to jem; "can you get it out of my basket?" jem laughed. it already stood on a plate at her elbow. "we are ready then, mother," said meg, preparing to sit down at the tray. "will you come to the table?" "i don't think you've made the tea yet, my dear," answered mrs. seymour smiling, as she glanced at the still steaming kettle. meg looked disconcerted, but jem only patted her cheek, and said tenderly, "we can't expect little wives to remember everything the first day, can we?" meg had to ask where the tea was kept, and then they gathered round the table. jem bent his head and asked their god to bless them now and always, and mrs. seymour added a gentle and solemn amen. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. the lost brooch. jem had been brought up as a painter, and had served his time in that trade. but painters are often slack, as he knew to his cost; and when he had nothing much to do he used to employ his fingers in another way. besides, there were long evenings and half holidays when he could pursue the avocation which he liked much better than even painting. during the years in which he had been learning his trade he had been thrown with carpenters and builders of every class, and he soon had made up his mind that he would learn all he could, so that, should the opportunity ever come, he should know how to be a builder himself. but times had not as yet been propitious, and at twenty-five he found himself still only a painter, with a very fair knowledge of carpentering into the bargain. about a year ago he had been taken on as a permanent hand at a large decorating-house, who undertook work in the country; and jem, valued for his trustworthiness and general ability, was often sent as one of those who knew his own trade well, and also could turn his hand to several others. thus it came to pass in the early spring of this same year he had been sent to help in repairing mrs. macdonald's handsome house, and had stayed there for two months. he had soon met with meg, and had been struck with her gentle modesty of demeanour. hitherto the girls he had met had been dressed to the very utmost of their means, and had behaved in a flighty, loud manner which grated on his feelings. "no such wife for me," he had said to his mother one evening, when they had just met one of their acquaintances in gaudy finery, which could not hide her slovenly boots or pinned-together dress. his mother quite agreed. hard-worked and poor as she was, no one had seen her anything but neat. but meg was different. as now and then he met her flitting up the stairs at the hall, or passing to and from her mother's cottage, he knew he had to do with quite a different woman from those with whom he was accustomed to meet. he was sauntering along a lane one afternoon in march when his work was over, thinking of all this, and enjoying the quiet twilight, when he saw a stooping figure in front of him eagerly looking for something. "have you lost anything?" he asked, coming up to the figure. "can i help you?" he found with a start that the subject of his thoughts was close to him. hitherto she had only nodded civilly in return for his passing greeting, and now in the dusk hardly recognized him, though she knew he was a stranger to their village. "oh, thank you!" she answered. "what is it?" he asked. "it is my mother's little brooch. i can't think how i came to drop it. i should not mind so much only that it has my father's hair in it. she values it very much." "i dare say we shall manage to find it. when did you miss it?" he asked. "just now--not two minutes ago. i know i had it at that stile, because i turned there to look at the new moon, and i had it in my hand then." they searched in silence for some minutes, but the twilight had deepened quickly, and the dewy grass seemed all one mist under their feet. "this is damp for you, ain't it?" he asked suddenly. "yes; that was how i came to drop it. i gathered up my dress, and it must have slipped then. whatever shall i do?--we cannot see any longer." "i dare say they have a lantern at the stables; i will go and ask." "i will wait here," she answered. "don't do that. you go home; i'll come back and look till it's found." "i cannot trouble you with that," said meg. "mother and i will come early to-morrow. no one passes this lane before seven. we could see soon after six now." "it will be no trouble," jem answered earnestly; "and if it can be found to-night it is far better nor waitin'. there is some things gets better for waitin', but others----" meg listened: surely there was a serious tone in this man's talk, such as her mother loved. they were rapidly nearing the light in her mother's window. "that is your home, ain't it?" asked jem, pointing. "yes; how did you know?" "i heard you lived there. may i come up to the door with you?" meg assented. she was rather surprised, but not sorry that he wished it. when, however, he got to the door, he bade her an abrupt good-bye, and hastened back along the path. she saw his form disappear in the direction of the stables, and then she opened the door and told her mother all about it. "he's been working at the hall for this month, mother; but i've never spoken to him before." mrs. archer went to the door and looked anxiously down the lane, as if with her old eyes she could see the lost brooch herself. "dear, dear," she said, "to think i could have let you take it to be mended, and not have gone myself!" poor meg stood beside her in silence. she wished it too; but how could she know she would lose it? just then a light twinkled down the lane, and passed rapidly onwards. meg bethought herself. "mother, i _must_ go back," she exclaimed. "what will they say to me? i told them i should be home early. i'll try to send george over to know if--if he has found it." so when after a quarter of an hour's search jem came back with it to the cottage, the little bird whom he had hoped to see there was flown. "i'm naught but a workman," he said to her, when after another month of seeking the little bird he caught her at last; "and i haven't anything nice to offer you, meg. i can't give you such a home as you've been used to, not even as good as you might ha' had at yer mother's." meg was going to speak, but he went on as if he must say all that was in his heart. "and i know i'm not so--so--refined, meg, as you are. you have lived amongst gentlefolks, i've lived amongst the poor, and i know now what i didn't perhaps enough understand when i set my heart on you, that my speech and my bringin' up is not so good as yours. meg, if i've done you a wrong in lovin' you, i'll go back home, and never come again--" he paused: could he say any more? what would he do if she accepted that last alternative of his? but meg put her hand into his. "it's the heart, that is the thing, jem," she whispered, "and that's above fine words and ways." "if you can be satisfied with that, meg, we shall be very happy!" he answered, clasping her hand tightly; "for my whole heart is yours, which has never loved another." "and i'm not afraid," meg went on earnestly, "since you told me all that happened two years ago. any one who has felt like that is safe to trust." for jem had told her one sunday, when, with her mother's permission, he had walked home from the evening service with her, what a different man he had been since one particular day. "i was going down a street near home," he had said, "when some people came along singin' somethin' which i thought sounded very swinging and pretty, and i stopped to listen. they marched along slowly, half-a-dozen of 'em carryin' a banner in front of them, with the words in large letters on it, 'come to the hall at o'clock and hear the good news.' still they went on with the singin', and i got curious to know what their good news was. "'ye must be born again, again, ye must be born again, again; i verily, verily, say unto you, ye must be born again!' "on it went with a swingin' sort of roll, and i wondered, and followed on in spite of myself. 'seven o'clock; hear the good news!' what good news was there in being told to be born again? nonsense! this warn't any good news as i could see. i'd a deal sooner they'd have told me where i could ha' got a bit more work. that's what would ha' been good news to me, i thought. but i went with 'em, for all that; and the end of it all was, that i _was_ born again! that very night i got into a new sort o' man. i left all the old things far away behind--'as far as the east is from the west,' the man who preached said, and i got instead such a white robe to cover me over, as made me feel whiter than the snow they sang about. and that's how i came to be different--just washed in the blood of the lamb!" "i know what that means too," meg had answered softly. "i knew you did," he had said. and then they did not speak again till they parted at the hall gates. "so, though i'm naught but a workman, you can put up with me, meg?" he asked, the day before he was going away, and the repairs were finished. [illustration: "dickie," she whispered, as jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about jesus? that's the good shepherd what i've told you about, as loves the little lambs."--p. .] and she answered by putting her hand into his. "one thing i can promise you," he said: "that as long as god gives me strength i'll work for you, meg!" "and after that i'll work for _you_!" she answered, while two tears glittered in her eyes. in three months' time meg left the sweet country and the great hall, and her mother and young sister, and went to london to make jem happy. mrs. macdonald gave her a nice wedding breakfast, and much good advice, and meg entered on her new life as we have seen, full of hope and peace. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. royal children. "you didn't think as i was near you this afternoon, did you?" asked jem, when he came in to his tea, a few days after their marriage. "no, indeed," answered meg, looking up; "were you?" "yes; you know the court what runs up under these houses, first turnin' on the right?" "i think i do." "well, one of them houses. my master has the job to repair them a bit; they're goin' to change hands, i believe, and so i shall be about here a good while before they're done." "i wish i'd known; then i'd have watched for you," said meg. "would you? well, my dear, i don't know as it will make much difference, only for knowing as we're near each other, because i never do use myself to leave my work, for nothing." "ah! no," answered meg. he sat down to the table, and after he had asked a blessing they began their meal; but jem was unusually preoccupied. meg was not an old enough wife to understand all her husband's moods, and supposed he was tired with his day's work. "meg," he said suddenly, "i suppose we haven't such a thing as an old blanket?" meg looked rather astonished. "why, you know, jem, as everything nearly is new what you got ready for our home." "yes," said jem, "yes, i know. i wonder how we could do?" "what is it for?" asked meg. "why, my girl, my heart's just achin' at a little feller i saw there in a attic. he's been lyin', his sister told me, ever since the first week in may, and he's like a skeleton. she don't seem to have much to give him, nor to live on herself neither, and he's got nothing on him but an old shawl, and the girl says as he's awful cold of nights. it's a frightful draughty place." meg's happy eyes filled with tears. "oh, jem," she exclaimed, "can we give them one of ours?" "well, ye see, meg, it won't do for us to be giving away our things one by one; for if we began in this poor neighbourhood, we should not have a rag to our backs, as the sayin' is. but yet this little chap--" "oh, yes, jem, we ought not to 'pass by on the other side,' as the bible says. do let us give one of ours." "i was thinkin'," said jem; "you know, meg, you and me made up our minds when we was married to put by somethin' to give to our god out of every shillin' we earned--" "yes, we did," answered meg eagerly. "now, though we haven't earned much yet," he went on, "yet we've had a deal give us; and 'sposin' i was to get a blanket for the poor little chap: how would that be?" "oh, jem, do! will you take me out with you to get it?" jem smiled; then turning grave again, he added: "but, sweetheart, i'm loth to sadden you with such tales when your dear heart's a bit sore at leavin' home. eh, meg?" meg's tears were very near, but she answered as steadily as she could-- "it would be poor thanks to him who's given me so much, jem, to say as i was too happy to be made sorrowful by helping any one in need." jem said no more, but went into the other room and fetched meg's hat and jacket; but when they got outside in the brilliant light of the declining june sun, he said to himself, that he had never before seen his meg look so beautiful. the blanket was bought, a very ordinary one--"all wool" as jem had said, remembering his mother's bringing-up, but not so good as to be immediately noticed and perhaps stolen in the large lodging-house in which the children lived. then they retraced their steps, and when they came to the court jem stopped. "i'll soon be home, my girl; you go on without me." "shan't i come too?" asked meg. "if you'd like to, my dear; but it ain't a nice place." it was by this time getting dusk between the high houses, and meg followed her husband in silence. it was the first time she had ever been into any crowded abode. a country cottage was the only experience she had had. jem led the way up the dark and rickety stairs to the very top, and then stooped his head under a low doorway. the room was close under the roof, open to the tiles, and was very bare, but neat and orderly. on a mattress in the corner lay the little sufferer, while by him sat his crippled sister, nearly as pale and thin as he. "my child," said jem in a kind voice, addressing her, "do you think if i brought you a blanket you could keep it from being stolen?" the child looked up suddenly. a face, with all its want and suffering, on which something indescribable was written. jem did not analyze it, but he felt it. "i think so," she answered. "i know a place outside up under the roof where i could hide it away if i go out. that's what i have to do with most things as it is." meg seated herself on the box by the child's side and looked down on his little face. she put his wavy hair back from his forehead and said tenderly-- "poor little dear, you have a bad cough!" "yes," said the child; "me cough all de time." "yes," pursued his sister. "dickie's been bad this five weeks, and if it hadn't been for father having a bit of work, and bringin' home a little for once, he'd ha' died." dickie did not seem to mind being thus spoken of, but he turned his head wearily away, as if it were too much trouble to think. "i like bein' ill," he whispered, as meg bent over him. "like it, dear?" she questioned, thinking she had not heard aright. he nodded ever so slightly, and then added in a little determined voice-- "'cause then they don't _hurt_ me no more." meg would have asked for an explanation, but jem was unfolding the blanket, and the girl was absorbed in wonder at its comfort and whiteness. "dickie, look!" she exclaimed in a low joyful tone. but the child was too ill to be interested. he did not turn his head again, and cherry said, with all the life gone out of her eyes, which had so quickly lighted up at sight of the blanket-- "that's how he is most times. sometimes i wish he was safely in heaven with mother." jem put his hand gently on the girl's arm. "ah, my dear, that's how we feel when we're sad; but if we understand that god loves us, we'll be willing to wait, so as we may do his will." her wide-open, sad blue eyes filled slowly, and she turned in silence to cover over her little brother. she took up the old shawl and spread the blanket next him, then unfolding the shawl, which had been doubled for warmth, she carefully covered every bit of the blanket with it, even seeking a bit of rag from somewhere to stop up a hole through which the whiteness peeped. "he might guess it else," she explained, and her hearers had to draw their own conclusions. "wouldn't he like him to have it?" questioned jem. "he'd like drink better," answered cherry, in a matter-of-fact tone. "since poor father's taken to that so much, he don't have the heart he used to have, he wouldn't have took this attic for us, so comfortable, only the landlady let us have it cheap 'cause the other folks wouldn't have dickie no longer." "why, dear?" asked meg pitifully. "'cause he cried and coughed so. the attic was empty, and i told father i didn't mind the holes in the roof so long as they wouldn't worry dickie. so he was in a good humour, and let us come, and we've been here a month." cherry spoke in a congratulating tone, but soon grew sober again when she looked towards the little brown head that moved so restlessly. "jem," whispered meg, "might i make him some bread and milk, and bring it round to him at once?" jem willingly agreed, and meg hurried away. while she was gone, he sat down and drew from his pocket a little testament, and with cherry's eyes curiously watching him, he turned over the leaves till he came to the tenth chapter of john. then in a clear, low tone, that soothed while it wooed them to listen, he read about the good shepherd giving his life for the sheep. cherry sat down on the bottom of the mattress and listened, evidently not as if it were a new tale, but yet as a thirsty man will stretch out his hand for water which he has not tasted for so long. "dickie," she whispered, as jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about jesus? that's the good shepherd what i've told you about, as loves the little lambs." dickie opened his eyes just enough to give her the shadow of a smile of assent; but he was too weak to care to speak. "here, dear," said meg, coming in and leaning over him; "do you like a little nice hot bread and milk?" the child could not remember the time when such a name had been mentioned to him; but when meg put a spoonful to his lips the smell of it brought back vividly the remembrance of his mother. "yes," he said, answering meg's question now; "i 'ike it very much." when he had eaten about half he put his little hand out, and gently pushed the basin away. "no more," he whispered, and sank into sleep such as he had not had since that terrible may day, when he had been brought home nearly dying. then meg turned to cherry. "eat the rest of it, dear," she said. "oh, no," answered the child, drawing back; "it 'ull do him such a deal o' good. he never gets nothing nice." "jem will let me bring him some more another day," answered meg; "but if you would rather keep this till he wakes, see, i have brought something for you." she unfolded a piece of paper with two thick slices of bread-and-butter, which cherry took in her hands with a look of gratitude which went to meg's heart. "oh, you _are_ good!" the girl exclaimed, throwing her arms round meg; "nobody was ever so good to us before--since mother went. he's always callin' for mother." meg gazed in the upturned face, and then after an instant's hesitation she stooped and kissed it--the soiled little face, upon which meg was certain was written the name of the king of kings. [illustration] [illustration] chapter v. a few shirts. "you look tired, mother," said meg, drawing forward the arm-chair the first time her mother-in-law came to see her after her wedding-day. "i am," answered mrs. seymour, sinking into the seat with a weary sigh. "i was going to set out to call on you this morning, but, stupid-like, i never asked jem where you lived before he went to his work. so i couldn't come." "and jem never told you where i lived?" asked mrs. seymour, astonished. "i asked him," answered meg, "and he smiled at me, and said he should tell me nothing about it, but take me to see." "why, i live in the very same house, my dear." meg looked too surprised to speak. when at last she could find any words, she said anxiously-- "how very unkind you must have thought me, mother, in not coming to see after you. times i have meant to ask jem, but then he was out; and these few days have passed so quickly, i have been so busy getting out all my little treasures." mrs. seymour looked round. "your things have made a lot o' difference, my dear. you have smartened it up a deal." "oh, it did not want smartening up," said meg; "but the young ladies at the hall did give me such pretty things. look at this workbox, and this tea-caddy, and that pretty vase. those were the young ladies' gifts, and those glass dishes from the other servants." mrs. seymour said they were very kind, and then sat looking somewhat abstractedly into the little fire. "and he never told you what a job he had to get these rooms for you?" she asked at last. "no," said meg; "did he have a job?" "oh, that he had. for the party that was in them didn't want to move out. you must know, meg, that i and jem lived in two rooms in this house ever since i buried his poor father. but when he got to earn enough, he took the front room on this floor for himself, and used to come and have his meals with me. i've lived in this house twenty years come michaelmas. i'm a laundress, you know, and wash for poor folks." "a laundress!" exclaimed meg, looking at her pale, thin face; "then that's what makes you so tired?" "no, my dear," briefly answered her mother, "not if i had got my usual help. but she's took a day's holiday, as she does whenever it suits her, and i and my work may go then, for aught she cares." the old woman's face had begun to assume a hard look, but it was only for a moment. "well, well," she said hastily, "it's not for me to be coming down hard on others; i'm not so good myself to my master. but there was a day, meg, when i couldn't have felt like that; and it ain't so long ago, neither. it was my jem as brought me the good news, and since i've been forgiven myself, i'm learnin' to forgive. it makes all the difference." "it does indeed," answered meg gently, seating herself in a low chair close to the old woman, and putting her hand in hers. the caress was unexpected, and her mother looked down upon her with quick watering eyes. "i might help you to-day," said meg, hesitating a little. not that she grudged offering her help, but she knew so little of her mother-in-law's life. should she have to go and wash and iron among a lot of other women? mrs. seymour paused a moment before answering, and then said cheerfully-- "well, my dear, if you would help me for an hour or so, till jem comes home to dinner, i should be very much obliged, and then we can ask him. what worries me is, that i promised a man who is going away to get his shirts done by one o'clock; but i was that beat, that i could not stand another moment." "i wish you had asked me," said meg, looking grieved. "you must try to think of me as a real daughter." mrs. seymour was much touched, but it was not her way to show feeling, and she only answered-- "thank you, my dear. i shall take your kindness as it was meant; but if you help me at any little pinch like this, you must not be hurt at my giving you what i should have given jenny." meg looked mystified, and then coloured painfully. "oh, i don't think i could," she began; but her mother-in-law stopped her. "talk it over with jem, my dear; this is a hard world, and if you could put by a little for a rainy day you would not be sorry. i must pay some one; why not you?" "we will talk to jem," said meg, recovering herself, and speaking with cheerful alacrity. "i am quite ready, mother; so if you are, we will come and begin, because one o'clock will be soon here." "they're all starched and damped down," said mrs. seymour, "and the irons is heating beautiful." they turned from the door, and meg prepared to run down-stairs. "not there!" exclaimed mrs. seymour. "why, meg, i live at the top." "oh," said meg, laughing, "you must scold jem for not telling me." "yes, i live at the top," mrs. seymour went on as they reached the landing, "because, you see, no one don't interfere with me up here. i hang my things across here, or i hoist them along this pole out o' window, and i can manage finely." "capital," said meg heartily. "and have you both these rooms?" "yes, i rent both; but i have a lodger in one." meg made no answer, but followed mrs. seymour into the front room, where hung numerous lines close to the ceiling, with clean clothes airing away as fast as they could. the fire was bright, and so were the irons; so were the tins on the shelf, and one or two covers on the wall. in the middle of the room stood a spotlessly white deal table, and across the window an ironing-board covered with a blanket and cloth, all ready for use. "what a nice room!" said meg. "shall i begin now, mother?" mrs. seymour assented, standing by and watching critically, while meg looked round for the iron-holder, saw that the stand was ready, and bent over the fire to lift off the iron. her mother had placed a collar in readiness for her to begin on, and waited while she dusted her iron and put her first pressure upon it, after which she turned back to the arm-chair and sat down with a satisfied sigh. meg's cheeks were hot under the gaze of those observant eyes, but she went on without looking up till the collar was done and another spread out. then she said-- "what will be the next thing, mother?" "you've learnt from a good ironer, my dear." "yes, that was mother," answered meg brightly; "they used to say so at the hall." "i don't doubt it. there are the shirts rolled up in that cloth. when you've done one hang it here to air; i always air everything. poor people haven't fires, you know, and there's plenty of rheumatics caught by damp clothes." meg ironed away, and the weary old woman caught herself dropping into a doze. it was all very well being up early and late, and washing and drying and folding, but worry quite knocked her up; and to know that she had a certain time in which those shirts must be done, and being deprived of her strong helper, she had felt as if her usual energy had failed her. a gentle voice roused her. "they are finished, mother. have you anything else you want done, or may i go down and see if it is time for jem?" "to be sure," answered mrs. seymour, opening her eyes. "have you done a'ready? thank you kindly, my dear." her quick glance scanned the shirts hanging neatly folded on the large horse in front of the fire. "are they right?" asked meg. "i had to guess a little, because i have not ironed any of these sort of shirts ever." "they will do quite well, thank you, my dear. i don't fold 'em just so, but i don't see that it matters much for once. he won't know no difference." just then a step was heard on the wooden stairs, and meg started and turned round. "is my little woman here?" asked a voice that made her heart bound. "just ain't she?" answered her mother-in-law with animation. "here have i been sleepin' like any top, and meg's come and done my work for me." jem looked well pleased. he knew his upright old mother far too well to fear that meg would be called on too often to help. "oh, it's nothing," said meg; "but now, jem, you must come to dinner, or you'll not be back in your hour." they left the old woman, and as they went down, up came the man to fetch his shirts. "all right," said mrs. seymour, handing them to him; "and i've put on the buttons. no thanks to jenny, though, i can tell you. it's my new daughter as has helped me." [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. a lodger. "what do you think i'm going to try my hand at to-day?" said meg the next morning at breakfast. "i'm sure i can't tell, dear." "i'm going to make some bread!" "oh, that's it, is it?" asked jem; "if i didn't guess as much when i saw you carryin' home that little red pan." "but if it's heavy," said meg dubiously, not referring to the pan, but to the bread, "shall you ever trust me with your flour again?" he only smiled at that, and said, "but you used to make it at home, for i'm sure as you told me so once." "so i used, but not for a long time now; and you know there are a great many things that have to be right, or your bread won't be right." "well," said jem, "let's get 'em all right, and then we shan't have no mishaps." meg laughed merrily. "jem, i must have some german yeast, and some nice good flour." "i'll buy those for you as i pass along to my work, and tell them to send 'em in." "but they'll have to come early," said meg, "or it will not be a bit of use." jem promised to see to that; and then meg propounded the question which had been burning on her lips all yesterday, only she could not get courage to bring it out. "jem," she began. "well, little woman?" "jem--should you very much mind if i were to earn something?" jem looked astonished, and then a cloud came over the brightness of his face. did his little woman already begin to miss some of the things she had been accustomed to at the hall? "why, dear?" he asked soberly. "because--at least--jem--your mother said--if i helped her she should pay me!" "and you did not like that?" asked jem, looking relieved, but puzzled. "i suppose i did not. i think i should like to help her for nothing--out of love to you, jem, and by-and-by out of love to her." "yes, dear, so should i; but i see what mother feels. if she has more work than she can do alone, she would have to pay some one else, and would a deal rather the money went into your pocket. she would not be right to earn money at your expense." "not if we gave my time willingly?" "no; but, meg, you needn't do it unless you like it, my dear." "i thought you would be sure to tell me to help your mother all i can," said meg, almost ready to cry. "an' so i should, sweetheart, while we had breath in our bodies, if she were ill or needed it. but it's different as it is. jenny don't serve her well, that she don't." "who is 'jenny'?" asked meg. "jenny lives on our first floor. she has an old blind father, but she's out a deal. i fancy they have some sort of little income, for she don't work steady enough to keep him, and pay rent for those two rooms." "and does she iron for mother?" "yes; and wash too sometimes. but mother has a knack or two with the washing, and likes to do most of that herself; she says folks don't get the things clean." "then you would like me to earn something if i could, jem?" she asked. "well, dear," he answered very kindly, "if you was to ask me what i'd like, i'd say as i should _like_ you never to have a need to work all your life! but, meg, i've looked at things a long time, and i've laid awake at night too thinkin' of them, and i've come to learn this. that our god don't mean us to be idle--none of us--and that it's _whatsoever_ our hands find to do, that we are to do with our might." meg's eyes lost their troubled look, and brightened up into their own serene sweetness under his earnest gaze. "and so," he pursued, "the matter seems to me to stand like this: 'is this what your dear little hand finds to do, or ain't it?'" meg sat thoughtfully silent for a few moments, and jem got his hat. then he came over to bid her good-bye. "i won't forget the flour, little woman." "and i won't forget what you've said, jem. i think my hand does find it to do." he kissed her tenderly. "if we bring everythin' as we're doubtful of to whether he would like it----" meg nodded; and then he was gone, and she stood alone. but in a moment his step was heard coming up, and his bright face peeped in. "how much yeast did you say?" "oh, a halfpenny worth--if they would sell it--half an ounce, jem; that will make up five pounds of flour well." "all right." this time she heard his step go to the bottom, and then she turned round and began to think of her day's work. "i'll run up and ask mother first," she said; and locking her door, which they were obliged to do in a house with so many lodgers, she ran up-stairs. in answer to her knock a rather far-off voice called "come in." she pushed open the door and entered, but mrs. seymour was nowhere to be seen. the bed-room door adjoining was ajar, but meg hesitated to knock there, as she was sure her mother had said she had a lodger. but in another moment a voice from within said, "come in here, please; i can't bear to speak loud." to meg's great surprise the speaker's voice came from the further of two beds, and a wan pale face, belonging to an elderly woman, raised itself a little from the pillow. "did you want me to come in?" asked meg, hesitating with a fluttering heart. "yes. mrs. seymour's run down to find jenny; she promised to be up early, and she ain't come. you're young mrs. seymour, i suppose?" meg blushed as she answered, "yes." she had hardly ever heard herself called by her new name. "she won't be but a minute. sit down, will yer. you didn't 'spect to find some one here, by your looks?" "no," answered meg. the invalid shook her head. "ah, to think now i should see you before i've been made straight for the day, after all!" meg did not reply; but thinking it might be unkind to go back, she sat down on the edge of a chair, and tried to think of something to say. "i've heard of you before to-day," said her mother-in-law's lodger, with an attempt at a smile. "have you?" asked meg. "and what's more, i've done for you what i wouldn't ha' believed any one would ha' persuaded me to do. but it was all along of jem's kindness, and mrs. seymour's kindness." "for me?" echoed meg. "for you. when jem told me he wanted me to move up here, out of my back room--yours, as is now--i flatly refused, that i did." "oh," said meg, "was it you who did that for me?" "yes, i did, and i don't repent it. in fact, i'm mighty glad i did, for i'm a deal more comfortable up here than i was down there. of course there's the smell of the washing, but if it's bad i holler out to them to shut the door; and most times i don't mind it, and where i lie i can see 'em in there, going about and ironing, and fussing; and it ain't half so quiet and dull as it was. and then of nights, when i want anything, i can just give a call, and mrs. seymour's up in a minute! jem said as it would be so, but i wouldn't credit it before." "and what made you decide?" asked meg, wondering in this mixture of self-interest and helplessness what had been the reason that influenced her at the bottom. "it was one night," said the invalid with a softened look, "i was took awful bad. i don't know what it was made me so bad; but i had told jem that evening, flat, that nothing on earth should move me out of the room where i'd lain for ten years, and it was no use his asking me. "well, as i said, i was took awful bad in my chest, and i laid there groaning for a long time. at last i managed to knock the wall, and got jem to come to the door. "'oh, i'm dying,' says i; 'come in and see what you can do for me, jem.' "he'd put on his things when he heard me first; and in he came and raised me up, and then he goes up-stairs and calls his mother. but as luck would have it, the neighbour on the ground floor was ill too, and mrs. seymour couldn't leave her for a moment just then. "when jem come up and told me that, i thought i should ha' died straight away. but he comes over to me as quiet and kind as any woman, and he says, 'miss hobson, don't you take on; i'll do all as i can for you, if you'll tell me what to do.' "so i told him to prop me up, for i couldn't fetch my breath, you see; and he goes and gets some hot water from his mother's boiler, and puts a shawl over my head, and makes me breathe the steam; and when i was a little easier he gets me a cup of tea, as did me a world of good. "once or twice while he was bending over me when i was so very bad, he says to me sort of soft-like, 'look to jesus, miss hobson--there's nought but jesus can save a dying soul.' "but i heard him without taking much notice. "when i was a bit better, and had done gasping so bad, he sits down by my side as kind as any nurse, and he says to me, 'miss hobson, i'm a deal more anxious for you to get the breath of life than ever i am for you to be able to breathe easy. i wish you would think of that!' he says. "and i says to him, 'what do you mean by the breath of life?' "and he says, 'it's coming to jesus, and getting forgiveness of all our sins from him. that's the breath of life!' "'i don't know how to come,' says i. "'ask him to draw you!' says he. 'he tells you, "him that cometh unto me i will in no wise cast out." if you'll come to jesus, you'll have new life.' "well, i don't know how it was, but i thought as it 'ud be a fine thing to get new life. so i laid myself back on my pillow and thought it over. but before long i says to him, 'jem, do you ever pray?' "'ever?' says he; 'you know i do.' "'then pray for me,' says i, closing my eyes. "when the grey dawn of morning crept into my room there he was, sitting by me and watching me still. "'jem,' says i, 'i've come to jesus. i'm awful bad, but he's said as he'll not cast me out. i've come.' "at that he looked as glad as if i'd left him a fortune. and then he gets up and lights my fire, and warms some gruel his mother had brought for me, and while i was eating it, i says to him, 'jem,' says i, 'you may have it!' "'have what?' says he. "'my room,' says i. and that's how it was as i moved up here to make room for you!" meg had sat spell-bound, listening to the woman's words, her interest in her jem swallowed up in her greater interest in this soul's struggle from death to life. "oh, thank you for telling me," she exclaimed at last. but the invalid spoke again. "i've been a selfish woman all my life, and now i've come near the end of it, i'm a selfish old woman still; but my jesus is going to cure me of that. i tell him about it every day, and he helps me every day to get the better of it, a little bit." "oh, miss hobson," said meg, coming close to her, "i do want to get like jesus too. will you help me?" "me, my dear?" "yes; i'm sure if you want to so much, you can show me how." "_he_ teaches," she answered, "teaches every day." just as she said these words mrs. seymour pushed open the door, and not seeing meg, said anxiously, "there! jenny's been and played truant again. her old father says as her uncle has come and fetched her to spend the day over at brixton." then she caught sight of meg, who hastened to explain why she was there, and her mother-in-law said, "why, my dear, you've come in my time of need. do you mean you will work for me as i proposed?" "yes," answered meg, "if it would be a comfort to you." mrs. seymour looked exceedingly relieved. "can you come at once?" she asked. "when i have made some bread," answered meg, "and tidied up a bit." "bread?" said mrs. seymour. meg smiled. "i'm going to try; and if i succeed i'll bring you a loaf, mother! please don't think i'm a new broom!" "you're a _nice_ broom!" said her mother-in-law, with rare enthusiasm, "and i'll come down to see you make it one of these days. dear, dear, can you make bread, to be sure? i've often wished to see it done!" [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. the empty pan. it was saturday, and meg had plenty to do, so that her mother-in-law's wish to have her at once was a little confusing. when she got down to her own room again her fire was low, her breakfast table untidy, and things less bright and orderly than they had been once since her marriage. she felt inclined to go up to her mother-in-law and excuse herself for to-day; but the remembrance of jenny's breach of faith made her pause. "no," she said to herself, "even if my bread has to be given up for to-day i must not disappoint mother." she ran up again and tapped at mrs. seymour's door. "mother, i want to arrange my work; how long will your ironing take me?" "why," answered mrs. seymour, "i've got behind this week, else i do say if they won't bring it to me before friday, i can't do it! but you see, my dear, i've to take it pretty much as i find it. poor folks haven't many clothes, and when they spare them, they want them done up quick. these came in yesterday, and if jenny had come to her time, they'd have been half done by now." [illustration: she sat holding it, the mother looking on at meg's swift gentle ways.--p. .] "and they will take----?" began meg. "three hours at least," answered mrs. seymour. "all right," answered meg, "i'll be up in about an hour. i must set jem's dinner on." she hastened away, and mrs. seymour turned into the bed-room to see after her invalid lodger. "i like her," said miss hobson. "jem's got a good 'un." "yes," answered mrs. seymour, a little shortly. the invalid noticed the tone, and answered, "now don't you 'spose i've known jem long enough to be free to pass a remark on his wife?" "as you like," answered mrs. seymour. "but _you_ don't like, i can see that," answered miss hobson. mrs. seymour did not reply, for she and her charge were apt to get into a little wrangle unless she could be very forbearing. the thought of how hard it must be to be in bed for years generally came to her aid, added to another thought, deeper and sweeter: "i forgave _thee_ all that debt." miss hobson was reminded by her silence that she too had some one else to please, and she proceeded with her morning toilet with a softer feeling in her heart. meanwhile meg quickly washed up her breakfast cups, and spread the things ready for making a meat pie. there were the remains of the chickens, and a little fresh meat which she and jem had gone out last night to buy. it was the middle of june, and very warm, and meg had fried it that it should keep the night. so she made her pie and set it ready to bake at the right time; she peeled her potatoes, and left them in a basin of clear water; she made up her fire so that it should burn as little coal as possible till she needed it for cooking, and then, after a glance to see if all were right, she went to the door. here she nearly stumbled over the boy with her flour and yeast. she took it from his hand, and putting it in her cupboard, once more set out for her mother-in-law's room. "you've come within the hour!" remarked mrs. seymour contentedly. "now, my dear, while i starch these few things, will you iron those pinafores? they belong to the family on the ground floor, where there's such a lot of 'em." "are there?" "such mites; there's six of them, i think, and one above another like so many steps. poor thing, you've seen her, haven't you, standing at the door with her young baby? it ain't two months old yet." "i've seen her," answered meg, leaning on her iron and pressing very hard. she remembered the glimpse she had had of the full room--the fretting babies, the general air of untidiness which only a half-open door had revealed. "she's no hand at washing,--leastways not to make anything respectable,--so i take a few of her things cheap. she was a tidy enough woman when she came; but poor living and many cares have beaten the life out of her." meg sighed, and wondered if there might be anything _she_ might do to lighten the burden; perhaps some day she might hold the baby or something. mrs. seymour did not sit down to doze in her chair this morning. she kept meg well supplied with things to iron, and meg satisfied her as much as on the previous day. "you do it just right," she said, approvingly. "you don't fiddle over it, and you don't hurry over it. now, jenny slights some of it, and puts so much work into the rest, that i tell her it's a wonder if there's a bit of profit left." "i'm glad i do it right," said meg, smiling. and then she thought of jem's dinner, and ran down-stairs to put her pie in the little oven. "how's your bread getting on?" asked mrs. seymour, when she came back. "oh, i left it for to-day. it does not matter," said meg, rather hurriedly, for she did not want her mother to know what a disappointment it had been to have to give it up after all jem's care and trouble. mrs. seymour made no remark, but she drew her own conclusions; and when meg had finished the ironing and had gone down-stairs, she went into the back room, and said to miss hobson-- "did you hear that about the bread?" "yes, i did. i don't know as i could 'a done it; only married hardly a week. that's what i call thinking of others afore yerself." mrs. seymour nodded and went back to clear her table for dinner, miss hobson's eyes watching her with interest meanwhile. on the whole, she did not feel sorry that she had given up her room to meg. when jem came in at dinner-time and went to peep into the red pan, clean emptiness reigned there, and meg sat quietly working by the window. as he understood nothing about bread-making, he concluded it must be in the oven. but when meg went to that to lift out the pie, and he saw no bread there, he was fairly puzzled. "where's the baker's shop?" he asked playfully. "oh, jem, i'm so sorry; but jenny went out, and mother wanted the ironing done. i could not manage the bread too--so it's not done." meg looked so concerned that jem had to get up and kiss her. "never mind," he said, "we must try again on monday." "yes; but i'm afraid the yeast may not be good this hot weather. still, we can see. jem, i did think it was what my hand found to do--" "i haven't a bit of doubt about that, little woman," he answered. "how did you find time to make this nice pie, or did a fairy come in?" meg shook her head, while she was delighted with his praise. "this is for to-morrow as well," she said, "because you know we agreed we'd only cook potatoes on sunday." "so we did; it could not be a better dinner." "how nicely this oven will bake our potatoes while we are at service, jem!" "everything's nice," answered jem, smiling. "meg, i shall not be home till four o'clock this afternoon; but if you'll be ready we'll take a penny boat, and have a turn up the river. this is our honeymoon, you know." meg blushed and smiled. "oh, jem," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, "i hope i shall be all you wish!" he looked down at her with eyes that said a great deal, but he only answered-- "mind you're ready, little woman." so meg set to and made her rooms as clean and beautiful for sunday as she could devise. it was true, they were already nearly as clean as they could be; but london smoke penetrates everywhere, and meg knew that a little sweeping and scrubbing would do no harm. when it was nearly four, she went up to ask a favour of her mother-in-law. "jem's going to take me up the river," she said, smilingly; "but i'm afraid the fire will go out, and there'll be no hot water for tea. would you think it a trouble to look to it for me, mother?" "not a bit, my dear. but if jem and you are going out, let out your fire this hot day, and come up and have tea with me when you come in. i was thinking i'd come and ask you." meg promised to do so if jem were agreeable, and hastened away to take off what little fire she had, and to lay it again to be ready whenever it might be needed. and then she stood looking out of the window watching for jem. the look-out was not as cheering as the look-in. tall sombre houses across the narrow street, with dirty tattered blinds, bedsteads half across windows, dirty children leaning out and risking their necks, here and there a few sickly plants. such was her outlook in front. behind it was still worse. a double row of forlorn little courts, where stunted fowls were kept, where badly-washed clothes were hung from saturday to saturday all the week round, where rubbish was thrown, where children made mud-pies, where old boxes and firewood were heaped, and every imaginable untidiness congregated to depress the spirits and health of the crowded houses abutting on it. meg never looked out if she could help it. people must live in london, she supposed, and jem had asked her to come and make london bright for him, and she meant to do it if she could. and then her eyes went up above the narrow street, and looked into the clear june sky, and she whispered: "they that wait upon the lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." [illustration] [illustration] chapter viii. gone. and so time went on happily and swiftly. the summer days came and went, while meg and her young husband worked cheerily at their allotted tasks. many a time did meg visit the forlorn attic, carrying not only dainties for poor suffering dickie, but cheer and sunshine for his devoted little sister. if meg had discovered in cherry traces of "a disciple," she did not fail to do her part in giving her many "a cup of cold water." this she did in various ways, so tenderly and unobtrusively, as to be almost unnoticed by cherry at the time. she brought her some soap and an old towel, and coaxed dickie "to feel how nice the warm water was," and when his ablutions were done, to their joy he had a long sound sleep. cherry made up her mind she would try it again another day. then meg begged a bowl without a handle, which her mother-in-law had done with as useless for washing; this she carried round to cherry and taught her to wash over her floor, so that if the old boards might not look white, they would at least be fresh. and once meg put on her oldest dress and scrubbed the room from end to end. she also took home the old shawl one hot august day and returned it in the evening clean and sweet. she was rewarded, if reward she needed, by cherry's brightened face, and by dickie's creeping off his mattress and up into her arms, where he would lie peacefully while she told him story after story of the little lamb who was lost on the mountains, and was sought by the good shepherd, until he carried it home rejoicing. by-and-by dickie began to run about the bare room with fresh energy; but as he began to revive, so cherry seemed to get despondent. there was a look of alarm on her face which puzzled meg; but the child would never give any explanation. she resolutely kept dickie up-stairs, hushing him from making any extra noise, and meg heard her once whisper to him in a warning voice-- "dickie, they'll know yer well again if yer don't mind; and then--i hope they've forgot you, dickie, for a bit." he seemed to comprehend, and turned to the bits of toys and broken crockery which he called tea-things as contentedly as before. "is he ever naughty?" asked meg softly. cherry nodded. "what do you do then?" "i talk to 'im, and tell 'im how sorry mother'd ha' been, and how sorry _he_ is," reverently; "and then he soon gets right again, and says he's 'good now.'" one day when meg went she found cherry with an old hat on, and dickie also with some apology for walking things. "are you going out, dear?" she asked, surprised, for cherry's aversion to leave her room had been so great. "we're goin' hopping," answered the child. "father's goin' to take us; and i think it 'ull be the best thing for dickie. he'll be able to run out in the air, and so--" she placed in meg's hand a pawn-ticket, as if she would perfectly understand. "what is this, dear?" "that's the blanket. i don't know no one as would keep it for us, and so i put it there. here's the money, and you can get it out for me, if you will, when we come back. i'd ha' come to you about it, only i didn't rightly know where you lived." it did not occur to meg to explain where her home was at the moment, though afterwards it cost her many a pang that she had not done so. she was busy thinking about the blanket; and just as she had promised to do as cherry wished about the pawn-ticket, cherry's father came up the stairs and entered the room. it was the first time meg had met him, and he stared in surprise at such a sweet vision in that desolate place. "this is a friend what came to see dickie when he was ill, father," said cherry in a deprecating tone. "eh! oh, well, dickie's all right now; and the train 'ull be gone if you don't come at once. we shan't be back again for many a long day." he looked askance at meg, and evidently waited for her to go. she bade a hasty good-bye to the children, and went down-stairs with a sad heart. so meg lost sight of her little friends, and though in a month or two's time she went several times to their attic, she could hear nothing of them. the attic had other occupants, and the child and his crippled sister seemed forgotten. meanwhile, the winter came and was passing away, while meg was busy from morning till night. if she were not rendering efficient help to her mother-in-law, she had some work of her own, over which she bent with a happy look in her face which made it like sunshine. one morning as she was returning from fetching some yeast for her bread-making, for meg had set up a regular practice of supplying her husband with her own baking, she entered the doorway just as the toddling girl belonging to the woman on the ground floor did the same. the little one was running at full speed, and before meg could put out her hand to save her, she tripped over a bit of brick which was lying in her path, and down she came with her head against the stone doorstep. meg quickly picked her up, and recognizing her, knocked at the door just as the child's mother ran to see what the screams were about. "i'm afraid she's hurt," she said, entering; "her head came right against the corner." "dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the mother, with an inward feeling that here was another misfortune; "i never did _see_ such children! there, child, leave off screaming and i'll see to yer." though the words were rough, the face of the woman was not unkindly. somehow meg had never come across her before, and had been too shy to make any advances without being asked, though she had often pitied the poor woman as she passed and heard the crying babies and general hubbub. "thank you, mrs. seymour," said the woman, taking the child from meg's arms. "my! ain't it bleeding! whatever shall i do?" "i should lay a wet rag on it," said meg; "and then we can see how big the place is. perhaps it isn't so much as it looks." "dear, dear, dear!" said the mother again; "i haven't one bit of rag handy; i have had to use all mine up for my boy's leg what was bad so long." meg ran up-stairs, and soon returned with a nice clean piece from a store of old linen which had been given her at the hall. she looked round for a basin, and soon had a little lukewarm water in it, and the rag put on the child's forehead. she sat holding it, the mother looking on at meg's swift gentle ways with evident surprise and pleasure. when the crying grew less, and the little thing, pale and miserable, was laid on the little bed in the corner, meg bethought herself of her bread, and took up her basket to go. "thank you _kindly_," said the woman gratefully; "you've quite cheered me up a bit. this is a hard life for us poor mothers." her eyes, which had once perhaps been as bright as meg's, were sunken and tired. she glanced at the deserted breakfast-table, and said wearily-- "work as me and him do, you may say, night and day, we can't satisfy their mouths. i can't tell you how i long for somethin' different from bread, mrs. seymour!" meg's eyes had followed hers, and she could see that there had been nothing on that table that morning but milkless tea and dry bread. nothing remained but a few small crumbs. "my 'usband says as it's hard to work and bring 'ome all he've earned, and then not to have enough after all. but what can i do? they've eaten a loaf and a half this mornin', and not one of 'em but could ha' eaten double!" "you have six children, haven't you?" said meg, sympathizing truly, but feeling powerless to help. "eight," answered the woman, "and all under twelve year old. here's the baby." she led the way into the back room, where in a good-sized bed a baby still slept soundly. "you must have your hands full," said meg kindly; "i wish i could think of anything to help you. where are they all?" "gone to school. they take even my biggest girl away from me, her as might be some 'elp, and i'm sure she don't want schooling as bad as she wants food." "it comes very hard on you. and so you have to stay at home with the babies?" "that's just it. i might put 'em out to be 'minded,' but i'm not going to have 'em starved under my eyes, and burnt and neglected and slapped! not but what i slap 'em myself sometimes," she added with compunction, "when i'm that tired--but not so often considering; and i'm not going to put 'em out for nobody." she seemed glad to have some one to pour out her griefs to, and meg hardly liked to hurry away. "i thought when i see you first as you'd soon get untidy like the rest of the girls, but you ain't yet!" remarked the woman, as they went back to the other room. meg smiled. "i hope not," she said gently; "but you know i have not got a lot of children to feed and see to. i should have no excuse now." just as she was turning to the door she thought of something. "i wonder if you ever make oatmeal porridge for your children?" she asked. the woman made a wry face. "law, my dear, they wouldn't touch it!" "i think they would if it were made nicely." "i'm sure you've been so kind and clever, that i ought to think of what you say," apologized the woman; "but i'm afraid--" "what have you for dinner to-day, if i may ask?" said meg, hesitating, in her shy way. "bread," answered the mother emphatically; "and i meant to pour some boiling water on it, and put some salt, and make believe it was soup. it's so bitter cold to-day." "i wonder if you'd be offended if i offered to make some porridge for you?" "i shan't be _offended_; but i know they won't touch it!" meg laughed. "you see!" she said brightly. "tell them a friend brought them some, and you give them their choice of that or bread, and i expect--" "i haven't any oatmeal," said the woman. "but i have; i'll go and fetch some. my husband has it every day for breakfast." "you don't say so!" exclaimed the woman. "but i must make my bread first, for if i don't it will not have time to rise. when i have done that i'll bring the oatmeal down with me, and make it for them. will you let me?" the woman thanked her; but before meg went up to her bread she requested that a saucepan of water might be put over the fire instead of the kettle, which the woman had already put on for the early dinner. "will you mind measuring the water into it?" asked meg; "eight half-pints is what i want, and a good teaspoonful of salt." mrs. blunt said she would, and meg went away to her bread. that did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had done her best to smarten up her room. the little hurt child had had its hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked three degrees fresher than when meg left her. "i have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she said, entering, with her clean cooking apron still on, and her neat hair uncovered by her hat. "it's very kind, i'm sure," said the woman. "now you must show me the right way, and then i shall know." "is the water boiling yet?" asked meg, seating herself near the fire and peeping into the steaming saucepan. "that it is! don't it look like it?" "because it must boil," explained meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the bottom and burn." "oh, that's the reason?" "yes; and i've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one. the iron ones get so hot." "must it be stirred all the time?" "oh no, every now and then. see, i'm going to sprinkle in the oatmeal with my hand. if i put it in all at once it would fall into lumps, and children hate lumps! at least _i_ did when i was a child." mrs. blunt stood by watching. "and how much do ye pay a pound for it, mrs. seymour?" "twopence-halfpenny where jem gets it." "what do ye eat it with? i've heard tell of treacle, but i'm no hand at sweet things myself." "no, more am i," said meg. "of course the best thing is a little milk; i dare say half a pint would do; but you might give them their choice of sugar." mrs. blunt sighed. she had spent nearly all she had left on the baker's loaves which went so fast, and she hardly knew where the milk and sugar were to come from. meg guessed that, from the change in the woman's face from bright interest to despondency. she thought for a moment, and then she said with some little hesitation-- "i wonder if the children would think me interfering if i were to bring them a little milk and sugar as a present?" the woman turned away to the other room, nominally to fetch the baby, who was stirring, but really to get rid of a few tears. it was the way it was done, she told herself, that was so nice. she couldn't have let every one do her such a kindness. "mind you stir it while i am gone," said meg, "because they won't take to _burnt_ porridge, for certain! you see it doesn't need much fire after once the saucepan boils." when she came back with the pound of sugar and a pint of milk, the porridge had had its full half-hour, and was done. "now stand it on the hob, and if it simmers a little it will not hurt at all. pour it out the last thing, and see if they do not like it better than bread, and feel more satisfied too. i've heard that it is the best thing you can have to make children grow." "may i bring back your spoon and tell you how i got on with it?" asked mrs. blunt, already longing to taste what looked and smelt so good. "do; i shall be glad to see you," answered meg. then pausing with a sudden remembrance, she said, blushing, "do you remember those loving words of our saviour to all who are weary and troubled, 'cast thy burden upon the _lord_, and he shall sustain thee'?" "i've heard 'em before," answered the woman, "but i don't know much about it." "we all can, just by taking him at his word," said meg gently, "and i don't know a burden that any one can have that will be too hard for him to help in." the woman looked in meg's face to see if she really meant it, and the clear eyes she met were too earnest to be mistaken. the woman wrung her hand and went back to the porridge without speaking. when meg had finished dinner, and was sitting down to her needle, there was a tap at the door, and on saying "come in," mrs. blunt with her two babies appeared in the doorway. "well?" asked meg, smiling. "well," said the woman, sinking into the seat meg pushed forward, "when they came in they sniffed and looked about, and asked where the loaf was, and peeped into the milk-jug, and then they spied the saucepan, and came over as curious as anything to see what it was. i told 'em as it was a present to 'em, but they had no call to eat it unless they liked; and with that i poured out a little into the basins. some of 'em was that hungry that they didn't think twice about it, and after a mouthful or two that they wasn't sure about, they finished what i gave 'em, and asked for more! that they did--all but one of 'em, and she turned up her nose at it and stuck to the bread." "did they finish it?" asked meg. "all but a bit i put by for their father. and they told me to say as they was much obliged, and hadn't had such a nice hot dinner i don't know when." meg was delighted. she got up to look into her little bread-pan, and the woman's eyes followed her curiously. "i wish i could see ye do it," she said, "'cause i've heard as it's a deal cheaper." "of course it is," said meg; "and if you have to stay at home to mind your babies, you could not use some of your time better. mother used to say it went quite twice as far as baker's bread. i'll show you how to do it next time i bake. i don't do it every day, because we don't need it." "will you?" asked mrs. blunt earnestly. "that i will. i'll let you know when to come." the woman rose, and called her little girl from the window, where she had been absorbed in looking out from such an unusual height. "she's better then?" asked meg. "yes," answered her mother, undoing the bandage; "see, it ain't such a great place. how it did bleed to be sure!" "i should keep it wet for the present," said meg; "water softens things so." "that's true," said the woman. then hesitating, she added, "mrs. seymour, you and your mother-in-law has been the only creatures since i came to london who has ever done me a kindness--i don't forgit it. the neighbours come in at times, and they mean to be kind; but one and another 'ull say a little word as 'ull make ye discontented with yer lot; and it ain't a bit of good. we've got to bear it, and makin' the worst of it don't mend it." "no," answered meg softly, "that's why----" "yes," interrupted the woman. "_you_ say i've got a burden, but you say there's the lord as can lighten it, and i shan't forgit. for one thing, i can see as you let him carry _yours_." she turned abruptly and left the room, and meg's eyes filled with tears to think how little, after all, she loved and trusted that dear lord who loved her and gave himself for her. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. meg's tea-party. the next time meg set about making some bread, she told jem to stop at their neighbour's door, and tell her to come up as soon as she could. accordingly mrs. blunt soon appeared, carrying her baby in her arms, a roll of mending in one hand and her toddling child in the other. meg greeted her with a bright smile. "here you are!" she said. "i am so glad you came early, because the earlier i get to it the better. i often make it before breakfast." "and can you bake it in your oven?" "yes, it is such a good little stove. i'm so glad it is not a kitchener, because they burn so much, whether you want it or not." "i could never bake enough in my oven to make it worth while," said mrs. blunt. "i've been thinking of that," answered meg, "and my husband says that the baker would bake it for you, he thinks, for nothing, if you made the arrangement to buy your flour there. you could make inquiries. jem says he knew one woman who did regularly." "i should want some large tins," said mrs. blunt. "i dare say you could pick some up cheap somewhere," said meg; "but anyway in a week you would save the price of a large tin." "should i?" asked mrs. blunt. "yes; jem has been reckoning it up, and he says you would save eighteenpence or two shillings a week." "i should like to save that," exclaimed mrs. blunt; "it would buy us a deal of things we have to do without now." "that it would," said meg, busily pouring her flour into the pan, and measuring some crushed salt into it. "see, mrs. blunt, to my five pounds of flour i put five half teaspoonfuls of salt and five half-pints of lukewarm water. it is very simple." "but you haven't put the water in yet," said mrs. blunt. "no, because part of that has to melt my yeast. here it is, feel it--just as warm as new milk. there! now i pour this on the yeast and mix it well; now i make a hole in my flour and pour in my yeast and the rest of my water, and stir it round--so--round and round till it is as thick as a batter and as smooth." mrs. blunt was watching intently. it looked very interesting to see meg's clean hand going round and round, each time drawing a little flour into the yellow cream in the middle. "it takes a long time," she remarked. "not a bit too long. if you are patient over this part the next will take less time, and your bread will not be lumpy." while she spoke she plunged her two hands into the middle of the batter and began to knead in the rest of the flour, which stood up round the sides as a sort of wall; and as she kneaded she pushed the middle out and drew the sides in, to mrs. blunt's great astonishment. "you see, i want to work it all smooth, and when it is in a round cushion it is done." "does it go into the oven at once?" asked mrs. blunt. meg laughed merrily. "no; i set it near the fire to rise, and it has to get to more than twice as high as it is now before it is ready. you will have to come up again to see it 'made up' if you want to learn the whole process." "i'm afraid i should be a long time getting it right," said mrs. blunt, sighing. "it wants experience," answered meg; "but you would soon know; and if you like to try it, i will look in on you and give you some hints." "then i may come up again?" asked mrs. blunt, as she saw meg turn her dough over as a final act, and cover the pan with a clean cloth. "i 'spose it's done for the present?" "yes," said meg, going to the bowl to wash off the flour which clung to her hands, "and when you come up again pattie shall have a bit of dough all to herself to make into a little loaf." pattie, who had stood all the while with her chin over the edge of the pan, absorbed in watching, now clapped her hands gleefully. "you are _very_ kind, i'm sure," said mrs. blunt heartily. "then you will let me know?" "i shall not forget, and if it is good bread you shall have a loaf for the children." "oh!" exclaimed mrs. blunt, in a very gratified tone. "look here," said meg, considering for a minute or two. "it is half-past ten now, and if i do not put it quite so near the fire it will not be ready till my husband has gone back to work this afternoon. i can keep it back a little. will you come up directly your children are gone to school, and sit with me for an hour or so while i bake it? that is the best way to learn." "oh, thank you!" said mrs. blunt; "then i will." "as i do not want my bread to be late, perhaps you would not mind coming up before you wash up your dinner-plates, then you can run down for that when the bread goes into the oven, and i'll mind the babies." the mother was only too pleased. somehow meg's society was so restful; she chatted about such pleasant things; above all, she seemed to be able to look at everything as coming from a father's hand above, who allowed even the disagreeable things to happen in truest love. so mrs. blunt went down with fresh heart, and tried her hand at a saucepan of porridge herself, and succeeded as well as meg had done, to her own great delight. at two o'clock she once more set out to see the bread made up. meg had already cleared away all traces of her dinner; the kettle was on the hob, the fire had been made up, and on the table stood a clean pastry-board, a basin of flour, and a knife. "the first thing i do when i have got out my things and washed my hands, is to butter my tins--dripping will do. see, here are two that exactly fit into my oven. i take a clean bit of paper and put a little knob of dripping or butter on it, and rub them all over, not missing any place, or the bread will stick. now i put the tins on the fender to warm; next i cut my dough in half,--look how full of little holes it is! that's what mother at home calls her 'lace,'--and i lift it out on to my board. here, pattie, this is a little bit for you. how nice and clean mother has made your hands! now you'll be able to eat it when it's baked. now i work and roll this with a little flour which i have sprinkled on the board first, till it feels quite dry again and has left off sticking; this will make the bread white and keep the holes small. hark how the bubbles break as i pinch it and roll it! there, that will do. now i must make it into the right shape and put it into the tin." [illustration: "here 'tis," she said, in a satisfied tone. "i knew as 'twas somewheres. supposin' you and me was to read a bit every night?" p. .] she did the same with the other half of the dough, then plunged the knife several times to the bottom of the tin, cut it across the top, and put it back on the fender. "now, mrs. blunt," said meg, "i judge by my oven whether to leave it there for a quarter of an hour, or whether to put it into the _bottom_ shelf of the oven. if the bottom is not too hot, that's the best place. yes, mine is just right; feel what a different heat it is from the top." "why do you do that?" asked mrs. blunt. "because if i put it into the hot part at once it would set the crust of the loaf before it had time to rise, and then the rest would be heavy. i leave it in the bottom just so long as will allow it to begin to rise, about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and then put it into the top, and my baking begins. you had better wait to see that before you go down again." "i made some porridge, mrs. seymour; and what's more they've eat it, and said it's as good as yours." "oh, i _am_ glad!" said meg, heartily. "when they get used to it, you see if they don't say it's _better_ than mine." mrs. blunt laughed at that, but she knew enough of children by this time to guess that meg was right. when she was gone down to wash her dishes, meg sat down on her low chair with the baby, and drew little pattie to her knee to hear a story. she told them about the good shepherd who loves little lambs, and how he gave his life to save the little lambs from being lost. pattie's eyes were very wide open, and she listened as long as there was any "story" in meg's words. then when she began to grow fidgety meg got her to learn the one word "jesus," and after that she sang to them till their mother came back. "now i'm going to fetch my mother-in-law," said meg; "she's coming to have a cup of early tea with us, while the bread is baking. i do not look at it yet, because i want the oven to keep hot, and i know it will not burn yet." "if the baker bakes my bread for me, i shall be saved all that," said mrs. blunt. "yes, so you will; and as your loaves will be large it would be a great help, because a baker's oven is such a nice even heat. still it is nice to know how to do it." "oh yes," said mrs. blunt. "i did not mean that." meg went upstairs. "come, mother," she said, "mrs. blunt's there, and i'm going to make the tea. it's early to be sure, but you won't mind." "i must finish these couple of shirts, my dear." "then i'll do that," said meg, "while you make up your fire. i couldn't venture to do _that_ for you, mother; i shouldn't do it right." meg laughed as she said that, and mrs. seymour laughed too. miss hobson from the inner room called out cheerily: "well, it's the only thing as she thinks you can't do to her mind anyway." "young folks can't have the experience of us old ones," said mrs. seymour. "we can't expect it." meg finished the shirts, and then went into the back room to say, "how d'ye do" to her mother-in-law's lodger, while mrs. seymour took off her ironing apron, settled her cap aright, and went downstairs. "i shall bring you a cup of our tea presently," said meg, "and a bit of bread and butter, so don't settle to sleep yet, miss hobson." "very well, my dear, i'm glad you told me. are you going to have a party?" meg smiled. "miss hobson, i've got a pot of sunshine that won't hold it all, so i'm going to give a little away." miss hobson looked at her curiously, but meg only nodded and ran off. presently meg allowed mrs. blunt to look for a moment with her into the little oven. there were the two loaves brown and crusty, with beautiful white ridges peeping out where the crust had broken, looking the picture of what home-made loaves should be. "are they done?" asked mrs. blunt. "not quite. they are not 'soaked,' as mother would say. if we took them out now they would be wet in the middle." she quickly shut the oven, looked at her fire, but did not touch it, as she had made it up before the bread went in; and then she turned to her kettle. "now boil as soon as you like," she said to it. she spread a cloth, set some teacups, cut some bread and butter, and took out of her cupboard a tin of sardines. "jem heard what i was going to do, and he brought these home of his own idea; don't you think that was kind of him?" asked meg. "that it was," said mrs. blunt. "why, i haven't been out to tea since--not for years." "here is the kettle boiling, and here is pattie's little loaf, just cool enough for her to touch. come, pattie, sit on this hassock on the chair by mother, you'll be high enough then." they gathered round the table while meg invited her mother to ask the blessing; then they all began. but before meg tasted hers she took up a couple of thin slices of bread and butter and a sardine on a little tray, with a nice hot cup of tea. "brought up some of the sunshine to me?" said miss hobson, smiling. "oh, i didn't mean that! but if you saw how thin and, careworn and poor she is----" "i know it--i've seen her often enough. meg, wasn't it jem as said that you did with your might 'whatsoever your hand found to do'?" "no, he said we ought to." "it's the same thing with you, i'm thinking." meg went back to her tea-party, and by-and-by the bread was done, and came out of the oven looking a picture. "how do you judge?" asked mrs. blunt. but she need not have spoken, for meg was tapping it with her knuckles, and when she heard it sound clear and bright on every side, she knew it was baked through. "there, mrs. blunt, one of those is for you; see i will stand it on its top on this shelf to let the steam off, and when you go you shall take it with you. whenever you like, i'll come down and watch you make one or two batches; that is, if mother does not want me." so the tea-party ended. mrs. blunt had not had such a quiet meal for years. her face looked brighter and happier as she prepared to go back again. mrs. seymour had already returned to her ironing, and meg was putting the loaf on a plate. "would you mind saying that text over again?" asked mrs. blunt wistfully. "that about our burdens?" said meg. "she's teached me one," said pattie. "i 'tan say it--'jesus,'--that's what she teached me." "so i did," said meg, kissing her, "and mother's text means just the same, only longer, because she's big. 'cast thy burden on the _lord_, and he shall sustain thee.'" [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. turning a new leaf. and so mrs. blunt began a new life. that afternoon when she went down with softened heart to her crowded and somewhat dirty rooms, she looked round upon them with new eyes--eyes that had been lightened by a ray from above. she scarcely knew it, and yet, instead of gloomy half-patient, half-hopeless despondency, she began to think even her poor little things might be able to be made better. the rest of her children were all at school, but they would soon be home now. they must not find home more desolate than usual because mother had had a rare treat. she put the new loaf carefully away, it must not be touched till to-morrow, and then she set on her kettle for tea and swept up the room. how different it looked even with that little bit of care! next, deciding that she should just have time to clean the hearth, she set about it with all speed, and was just putting away her pail when there came a rush in the passage, and four or five children burst into the room. it was on her lips to say, "what a row you do make!" but another word was already hovering there--pattie's new word, "jesus,"--and somehow that word would not let the others pass it. "ain't tea ready? we're awful hungry, mother." "very soon, jim. just take pattie and baby outside, will yer, while i turn round a bit. it 'ull come all the sooner for letting me get it without them hangin' on my skirts." jim saw the force of this argument, and with pretty good grace took the little ones under his charge on the doorstep, while the mother turned to the eldest girl with an unusually kind welcome. "come, kittie," she said, "and help tidy up for father. i've been out to tea, kittie, and i've heard words as has made me wish to have a happier home, and i want you to 'elp me do it." kittie, a well-grown but backward girl of twelve, rather stared at her mother, but she recognized that the tone was different, and concluding that her mother was in a good humour, as she called it, she hastened to do as she was bid. tea was a favourite meal. sometimes a little treacle or dripping was added to the bread, and though the tea was nearly as colourless as it was tasteless, still it was hot and occasionally sweet, and that was something. to-night a large stale loaf and some treacle was the fare, and as kittie bustled about to spread the cloth, mrs. blunt said again-- "kittie, i've often grumbled at things bein' so terrible hard for us, and about bein' so short of food and all, but instead o' that i'm goin' to turn over a new leaf." "a new leaf?" questioned the girl, pausing on her way to the cupboard. "what do yer mean, mother?" "i don't rightly know yet--if i did i'd tell yer. but one thing i do know, kittie. young mrs. seymour, what's been so kind to me, says the saviour don't mean us to go worritin' all our days, but likes us best to ask him to 'elp us bear our troubles; and she says as he lightens hers and he will mine. well, if that's true, i'd like to try it, and somehow, kittie--i don't hardly like to so much as say it--but i feel a deal happier and better, and as if i'd got some one to love as will never fail me." mrs. blunt's eyes were tearful by the time she had said all this, and kittie's watered in sympathy, though she did not fully understand her mother. "there's the kettle boilin'! make the tea and call the little 'uns in. what a mercy as we've got some treacle! that's 'cause the porridge cost less nor the bread would ha' done. we saved a penny or more for dinner, and every one had enough; and that's more'n we can say every day, ain't it, kittie?" kittie nodded. she was intent on filling the tea-pot. then she went to the door and began to call; but there was no need. jim caught up the baby, and there was a general rush to the table. the father did not come home till six, so some bread was set aside for him first of all, and then the mother divided what there was as equally as she could, giving larger shares to the bigger children. soon there was nothing but empty plates, and then the elder children went into different corners, or wherever they could be quietest, to learn their home-lessons. then mother quickly cleared away, and set the table straight for the father. a meagre meal for a working man. she felt it bitterly as she spread the few slices of bread on a plate, and put a small bit of dripping in front of them. but as she looked she remembered that there was the lord who was to carry her burdens, and not herself, and so she took courage again, though she could not at the moment see any way out of the difficulty. "it 'ull be better when i can make 'em the bread," she thought. "fancy saving two shillings a week!" at this moment a knock came at the door, and on going to open it, she found old mrs. seymour standing there with something in her hand. "mrs. blunt," she said, "i guess you're wishin' as your husband had been with us this afternoon to have such a nice tea, now weren't you?" mrs. blunt's colour rose, and she could have cried, she thought. at last she said, "why, how could you know that, mrs. seymour?" "i've had a husband myself, my dear, and a steady one too, like yours, and so i've brought this bloater if you'll excuse it, just to make a little relish for his tea. he isn't in, is he?" "no," said mrs. blunt, "but----" "no 'buts,' my dear. just you cook it for him and tell him to ask no questions about it, but enjoy it as much as we did our tea up yonder." she was gone before mr. blunt could say another word, and when she turned to the fire with her treasure, she thought she had never been so happy. but were these tears that were coursing each other down her cheeks? how was that? when her husband opened the door, expecting an untidy home and some dry bread, what was his astonishment to be greeted by an unusually cheerful-looking room, and a fragrant smell of frying fish. his wife turned round with a smile. "here's a treat!" she said, "and you're to ask no questions, but enjoy it. it ain't come out of our to-morrer's breakfast neither, so don't you think it; and i didn't buy it neither; so here it is smoking hot, and mind ye don't burn yerself." the man sat down in great wonder, first at the nice supper provided for him, and secondly at his wife's tone. she, however, took no more notice, but shut herself in the next room with the little ones, where she quickly undressed them and put them to bed. when she returned again, the other children had gone out to play in the street, and kittie was clearing away her father's tea. the father sat by the fire smoking, and turned round on his wife's entrance to look in her face, as if to see if there were a change there. but he saw nothing particular that he could fix upon, and he resumed his pipe in silence. "come, kit," said mrs. blunt, "you and me 'ull get to that mending. jim's wearin' his best trousers 'cause we ain't done it." "but i don't know how," said kittie, none too willingly. "then i'll show yer. come, kit, be a good girl and do yer best. you've been taught yer needle, that's one good thing." "i wish i could leave school," grumbled kit, as she fumbled in her pocket for her thimble; "there's lots o' girls as young as me has left." "of course they 'ave! them as is quick at their learning can leave sooner. i've telled you that a hundred times, but ye see ye haven't taken what i said." "i can't do no better," answered kittie, "the lessons is so terrible hard." "well, well," answered the mother, more patiently than usual, "perhaps the lord can help you in your troubles as well as me. we'll see about it. you and me has a deal to learn, kittie." kittie knew that. she was always being told "she had a deal to learn." the daily pressure on her mother, that would have been so lightened could she have left school, made the subject return again and again to worry her. inattentive and careless, she thought she could do no better, and hopelessly gave the whole matter up as a bad job. but when the mending was done, and she laid herself down in her little bed in the corner of her mother's room, behind the screen of a large towel-horse, which served as her bedroom, she began to think the matter over in rather a new light. what had her mother meant when she said, "perhaps the lord would help her to do better in her lessons"? was there any help in such a thing as that? and who was this "lord" of whom her mother spoke? kittie had perceived that things had been brighter for the last day or two, and if this had anything to do with this "lord," of whom her mother seemed to expect something, she too would like to understand the whole matter. long she lay awake, thinking. sleep seemed to have left her eyelids. her brothers came in from the street, and she watched through the open door her mother helping them to their rough little beds in the front room. by-and-by the hubbub was over, and quiet sank down upon the whole of them. her father must be dozing, she supposed, as he said not a word, and her mother was unusually silent too. the click of her needle and the sharp rap of her scissors on the bare table were the only sounds inside the room. outside the noisy roar went on as usual: the crying children, the scolding mothers, the cries of the fish and fruit sellers, the organ-grinders--everything just as usual. presently her mother spoke. "husband, i've been a thinkin' there must be something in them seymours as is different from most folks." "like enough," he answered. "there's a big print bible or somethin' stuck up over old mrs. seymour's ironing-board. what should ye think that might be for, now?" "i don't know, i'm sure; you'd a deal better ask her if y'er so curious." mrs. blunt was busy on her own thoughts, and pursued, without noticing her husband's implied rebuke-- "'cause if that's what makes 'em different, i'd like to be different too." "bide as ye are. don't you be taking up fine notions. ye've enough to do to mind us all, without doin' as other folks does." "i wonder where our bible's been put to," his wife went on, without regarding him. her husband did not answer. he was half inclined to be vexed at his wife's persistency, but he remembered the brightened room this evening, the absence of scolding, and the nicely-cooked fish, so he took refuge in silence. mrs. blunt got up, put away her work, and began searching on the top shelf of a cupboard which filled one corner. at last she got down from the chair on which she had been standing, and kittie could hear her blowing the dust from something. "here 'tis," she said, in a satisfied tone. "i knew as 'twas somewheres. supposin' you and me was to read a bit every night?" "not i," said the man. "if you've took up with new notions, keep 'em to yerself. i'm goin' to step out a bit. this 'ere room's stiflin'." his wife's countenance fell, and when the door banged behind him, she opened the book with a sigh. kittie from her corner could just see her mother's face--such a weary, thin face. she was thinking so, when, after turning over a good many pages, her mother began to read out in a subdued voice. kittie was so surprised that she listened, and these were the words she heard-- "behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, lord, if thou wilt thou canst make me clean. and jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, i will; be thou clean. and immediately his leprosy was cleansed." kittie lost the next few sentences while she said to herself, "then the 'lord' as mother spoke on means jesus! i didn't know that. and people is asking him to do something for 'em, and he seems quite willin'. i wonder if he'd be willin' to help poor little kittie a bit? well, what comes next?" "lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, grievously tormented. and jesus saith unto him, i will come and heal him." her mother ceased reading, and leant her head on her hand, while kittie, strange thoughts running in her mind, began to wish she could go to this lord to obtain help as these people had. she must get that book and see what more it said. at any rate of this she was certain, that the lord jesus answered to both those applicants, "_i will_." he did not say "no" to either, and if she could only find out how to speak to him, she too might get what she needed. with this comforting thought, and with the light of a new hope dawning in her heart, little kittie fell asleep. she did not yet know that he was close to her all the time, and that his ear was ever ready to hear if she spoke to him. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xi. a midnight bargain. "look 'ere," said a low voice, "be a good boy, and don't cry, and then i'll see if i can't get yer somethin' or other to eat." "but i'm 'ungry, cherry," whispered the little one in answer, frightened by former experiences into keeping his woe within bounds, "and it's all cold and dark 'ere. i wish you'd take me to mother." a sharp pang shot across cherry's heart, and she answered in a voice that held a sob only just restrained from breaking forth, "i can't, dickie, you know as i can't. i would in a minute if i could; mother's gone a long way off." "in a train?" whispered dickie. cherry nodded. what did it matter, so that dickie was pacified? she thought. "she promised as she'd take me," he said again, "and she never has. she never went a long way from dickie 'afore." "no," whispered cherry again, "no more she did from cherry; but she couldn't help herself--mother couldn't. she was took." dickie turned round wearily, and his little sister smoothed his hair and cheek, till by-and-by his gentle breathing told her that he was at last asleep. then she raised herself a little and looked round stealthily. the room in which she lay was a good-sized one, and in each of the four corners, heaped together for warmth, the different members of four different families were huddled. tattered rugs, shawls, and rags covered them from the biting february cold, and a flickering nightlight on a box in the middle of the room was the only gleam that revealed the shadowy misery congregated there. though the poor little brother was asleep, and cherry herself sorely needed repose, she still kept her wearied eyes open, watching the door fearfully. at last, overcome by fatigue, she forgot everything, till a slight moan from dickie brought her back to the present, and she heard a voice close at her elbow say thickly-- "well, yer can 'ave him: the worst on't is the gal; she'll take on if i say yes, awful." the words were spoken in a rough sort of undertone by a man who seemed by the sound of his voice to have been drinking heavily. the answer, from a woman who was already settling herself to sleep in her corner near, came in a hard distinct whisper-- "never mind _her_! she'll fret a bit, but that'll be the end on it. she can't do nothing. anybody 'ud know as 'tis better for 'im to be fed and clothed than left 'ere to starve." the man addressed was sensible of a sort of flash of memory, and a picture came up before his eyes. a neat, quiet home; an invalid wife sitting in a chair by the fire, tenderly holding a little frail boy; a crippled girl standing with her hand in the child's; a low hoarse voice pleading, "you'll take care of 'em, tom! you'll let that dreadful drink alone, and feed them as are so helpless instead!" that was the picture, and as tom heard the woman say what she proposed "was better than starving," he knew in his heart how cruelly he had broken the promise he had made to his dying wife. "i'll take 'im right away up to the attic if ye like," the woman went on, "and then," indicating cherry by a movement of her hand, "she won't hear nor see nothink." the man shook his head. "one thing, she do keep 'im quiet when we don't want 'im. and if she makes a fuss i'll find a way to shut 'er mouth; that i will, don't yer fear." cherry lay and quaked. well she knew all that was implied in this low-toned conversation, both towards her little brother and herself. but she too had seen, as by a flash, another scene. a woman on a dying bed, whispering with an earnestness which impressed every word on her child's memory, "cherry, if you're in any trouble, tell jesus--ask him to help you. oh, cherry, if i did not know you love him, my heart would break. jesus, will help you. tell dickie that i always said that." cherry thought of it now, at first with a hopeless feeling that things had been so bad for so long that she feared jesus did not hear; and then with a rebound she determined never to give up what her beloved and dying mother had bequeathed to her. "she always spoke true," she thought, with a sudden lightening of her terrible burden, and her head nestled against dickie's with a certain dim belief that rescue of some sort would come some day. the crowded inhabitants of the room had one by one sunk into slumber; even her father had ceased tossing about and swearing at all around him. still cherry lay broad awake, thinking over all the events of the last year, and remembering now with a sort of awe how she _had_ called upon her lord jesus last may, when things had been so dreadfully bad with little dickie, and how he had heard her, and had sent dickie a long and dangerous illness, which had made him quite unable to be taken out on hire with old sairy as heretofore. she remembered now with thankfulness, though she had not looked upon it as the answer at the time, that somehow the kind carpenter who had been repairing their wretched room had taken notice of dickie, and had given him a blanket and some grapes, and how his wife had brought him many a nice meal from their table. cherry's life was so hard that she had taken all that happened, both bad and good, with a sort of apathy; but to-night it all came over her afresh, and she realized that this had perhaps been the way her lord jesus had answered her despairing prayer for little dickie. then she would pray again; and this time instead of asking only for him to be taken away from the cruel woman everybody called "old sairy," she would pray that he might have a nice home, and love and care. cherry did not say those words, but in her simple language she asked what she wanted, and after that, with a strange sense of the burden lifted on to shoulders which were very strong, she closed her eyes and at last fell asleep. and even the next day, when dickie woke, and old sairy handed him a piece of bread, cherry took the matter with equanimity, saying to herself over and over again, "i've told jesus, and he's goin' to see to it." but when dickie had eaten the bread ravenously, he turned his little face back again to cherry's shoulder, and said with a shudder, "don't yer let me go 'long o' them, cherry, don't yer!" then cherry's heart misgave her, and she looked at her still sleeping father, and then at old sairy, as if to measure her possibility of resistance. but sairy gave her a glance which withered her up, like the raw february air which was rushing in at the open door, and hissed out in an undertone which made her shiver, "if yer don't mind what yer about, it 'ull be the worse for _'im_, and that i tell yer." an hour after, when she saw them set off as of old, the man with dickie, and old sairy with somebody's wailing baby, her heart died within her. the room had almost cleared. only a weakly young mother with her babe were left, and two sleeping drunken men. as cherry lifted her heavy sorrowful eyes they met those of the woman. "come 'ere, dear," she said gently; "don't you take on about the little 'un. it won't 'urt 'im to be out o' doors, and if you 'aven't food to give 'im, ain't it a deal better as they should feed 'im? i 'eard what them two said last night, and it's true as he's pretty nigh starvin'." "yes, but you don't know," whispered cherry, looking round fearfully; "if it was only taking him out i shouldn't care; but--" at this moment her father roused up and shook himself. "eh, gal, so they're gone?" with a coarse laugh; "and to-night we'll get a bit of supper, and some'ut to drink." [illustration] [illustration: "then the woman seizes dickie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might."--p. .] [illustration] chapter xii. "inasmuch." march was nearly over, when one night jem woke to see meg standing at the window. it was moonlight, and he could see her outline distinctly against the bright sky. "is anything the matter, meg?" he asked anxiously. "hush!" exclaimed meg earnestly. "jem, night after night i hear the same. i thought it must be my fancy, but i'm certain it's not. there! can't you hear those screams?" jem got up and came to the window, more with the intention of soothing meg than of listening to his neighbours. he had too long been used to london sights and sounds to be alarmed at a little crying in the night. meg held her breath, and on the night air were certainly borne unmistakable cries of some child, either in great fear or pain. "jem!" said meg again in a frightened whisper, "which house did you say dickie used to live in?" "d'ye mean dickie's attic?" "yes; where we went," said meg, with her teeth chattering. "get into bed!" he implored. "meg, you'll catch your death o' cold, my dear. i'll stay and listen here, if it 'ull do any good." meg retreated, and jem gazed out into the dimness. still he could hear what had so affected meg, and as he looked, and his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, which could not shine down into the depths of the courtyard below, but still shed a hazy light on it all, he began to see which-were-which of the houses behind; and could trace--there the back windows of a certain public-house--there the blank darkness of an empty building--and there the twinkling lights in houses which he knew to be general lodgings. it was from one of these he fancied, up the next court, that the cries came; and as he stood reckoning it up, he turned to meg and said, "it _is_ dickie's attic, i believe! there's a light there, and people movin' back and forwards. perhaps some one's ill." "no," said meg, sitting up, "it's nobody ill. it's some child being beaten or hurt. oh, jem, _could_ you go and see--could you get in there, do you think?" "not to-night, my girl. but to-morrow i'll see if i can hear anything of it. it's the house where i worked, so they'll know me most like, and not think i'm intrudin' on 'em." "jem! that blanket weighs on me," said meg with a sob. "those children ought to have had it all this time; but whenever i've been up to the attic to see, the people have been so rough to me, and the other rooms were all let out to several families in each." "i know," said jem, coming away from the window, "and very likely he'd have took the children elsewhere, especially if he didn't want you to interfere with 'em, meg." poor meg, with a weary sigh she lay down on her pillow and tried to sleep. the house where they fancied the sound came from was so near theirs at right angles, that a conversation could be carried on from the back windows if any one had chosen. as meg lay wakeful and sad, she fancied she could still hear the cries, growing fainter and fainter, till either they ceased, or meg ceased to be able to catch them. the next morning jem and she consulted as to what could be done; jem averring, very truly, that "folks wouldn't stand people coming to make inquiries after crying children." "i should not so much mind if it were not for cherry's hints," said meg; "but, jem, i could make something, or you could buy a few oranges to take in your hand, and say you had brought them for dickie if you could find him. would that do?" jem promised to do his best, and went to his work revolving the matter in his mind. he bade a tender adieu to his wife, looked in her pale face, and told her she must not worry, but remember what she had tried to teach mrs. blunt--to cast her burden on the lord, and find anew that he would sustain her. he hastened away, and meg cleared her table, and went up-stairs to speak to her mother-in-law. it could not have been more than half-an-hour afterwards that she and mrs. seymour were coming down together, and meg had just reached the bottom step at her own landing, when a man's voice was heard asking in a loud voice as he came up-- "does any one live here belonging to a man of the name of seymour?" "yes," answered meg and her mother both together. "because he's been run over near the monument, and they've taken him to 'guy's.'" meg gave one wild look at her mother, held out her arms to catch something, and fell fainting on the floor. * * * * * towards afternoon meg opened her eyes at the sound of a beloved voice. "my girl," he said, "don't ye know me? look up, sweetheart! here's jem. and look what we've got sent us from our god! meg, my girl, it was not your jem as was hurt." meg gave a faint smile, and then she saw her mother-in-law bending over her, and putting into jem's hand a spoon with something to give her. she allowed him to feed her, and when the cup was empty she whispered-- "jem, i thought----" "you must not talk, my little woman; but now you're a bit better, would you like to see our little child? he was sent to us while you were so ill." meg tried to hold out her arms, but failed, and her mother-in-law laid a little babe in them. meg said not a word, but pressed a kiss upon jem's hand, and endeavoured to reach the downy little head. but she had no strength, and mrs. seymour, seeing her wish, and knowing too something else which neither of them guessed, raised the babe a little, that its mother's lips might touch its tiny face. meg was satisfied, and closed her eyes to sleep. "husband and child," she thought, "who could be richer?" and then another thought came to rest her with its sweetness--"who for your sakes became poor, that ye, through his poverty, might be rich." meg's lips moved, and jem bent over her to hear. "we'll teach him about jesus first of all, jem," she murmured; and as jem assented, she slept. but the little one was to be taken into the shepherd's care at once. meg was never to have her desire of herself teaching him the name she loved beyond all others. mrs. seymour stood by and watched, unwilling to break the slumber which was like life to meg, and knowing that nothing could be done for the babe better than lying in its mother's bosom. and jem sat watching too, realizing in a dim sort of way that he was indeed a father. by-and-by his mother touched him on the shoulder. "jem," she whispered, cautioning him by a warning glance, "god is taking the little one to himself; but i think meg will do well if we can but keep her quiet." jem gave one look at her to take in the meaning of her words, and then he sat still, trying to realize and submit to what his god was sending. when, after two long hours of watching on their part, and deep refreshing sleep on meg's, she again opened her eyes and turned to her babe, the little spirit had already taken flight to the land where "their angels do alway behold the face of the father which is in heaven." "meg, my girl," said jem's voice, oh, so tenderly, "you'd be willin' to give him up into our saviour's care if he was to ask it?" "i think i would," she answered in a wondering tone, but looking up quite collectedly. "because i think the good shepherd has been callin' him, my dear." meg could turn her head now; she raised herself on her elbow, and gazed at the little face. "jem," she said helplessly, and laid her head back on her pillow with a sob. her mother-in-law bent over her. "let me take him for a little while, my child; it will be better so." meg made no objection, and her mother lifted the tiny form to her lap, and crossed its wee hands on its breast. "may it go in my cradle, just for once?" asked meg beseechingly. and so he was laid in the little cot that meg had prepared with such loving hands, and jem put it on a chair by her side; and then he sat down again by her, and they both wept together. after a long time meg wiped away her tears. "jem," she said softly, "i can say it now: 'the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away, _blessed_ be the name of the lord.'" jem and his mother watched by her side till the clock in the other room struck twelve, and then mrs. seymour signed to him to go and take some rest. but though not a word had been spoken nor a movement made, meg started up. "there it is again!" "what, my dear?" asked mrs. seymour soothingly. "lie down, and i'll see to it." but meg could not be silenced so. "jem," she urged, doing, however, as her mother wished, "jem, you said you'd go and see about it. oh, jem dear, my heart will break!" "i will, meg," he answered at once. "you're bein' so ill put it out of my head. i'll go at once." he rose, and his mother followed him out of the room. "i think she's a bit light-headed, jem; don't go out, my dear. what does she mean?" "i know," answered jem hurriedly. "let me go, mother; i ought to have been there ever so long ago." he went, and meg lay wide awake listening. she took the gruel her mother brought her, and pronounced herself much better. often her eyes rested on the little cot, but she did not cry, nor did she say anything about it. once she asked hesitatingly-- "mother, did i dream it, or did some one say that jem was dead?" "it was a mistake," answered mrs. seymour, "a cruel carelessness. it was a man of the name of seymour, who lives, we find, in the second house up the court, and people sent them here. 'twas a cruel thing to say it out like that!" meg asked no more, and before long she heard jem's step coming up the stairs and entering the room. he came softly to her bedside, and then, as if he could no longer bear it, he threw himself on his knees and wept bitterly. meg put out her hand and touched his head. "jem dear?" she questioned; while mrs. seymour laid a firm hand on his arm, and said gravely-- "don't give way so, my son, or you'll worry her." but jem was wholly overcome. "it might ha' been ours, it might ha' been ours!" he said, over and over again, till mrs. seymour was quite beside herself. "tell me, jem," said meg gently. "have you found dickie?" he nodded. "was he being hurt?" she asked again. he nodded again. "how?" jem shivered. "_how_ i shall never tell to mortal being!" he exclaimed; "but it was something they are doing to his eyes." "his eyes?" said meg, leaning up. "oh, jem, do tell me quick!" "to make them bad, to get more money by begging," said jem, as if the words were forced from him; "and his father's dying in the hospital, and he'll be left to their mercy!" "can't you fetch him here?" asked meg. jem looked up. "meg! could we--now? you and me was talkin' of it this mornin'. they'll be orphans to-morrow." meg smiled a weak sweet smile as she looked towards the cot. "bring him if you can," she answered, "and cherry too." mrs. seymour could hardly follow the course of their thoughts, for she knew so little of what had gone before, and when jem rose up and left the house for the second time, she was too astonished to protest. this time he was gone longer than before, and meg ate what her mother brought, and dozed quietly. after some time his step was again heard, and he came quickly up. meg's eyes opened, and she listened intently. yes, that was his step, and after it surely, surely, there was the halting one of poor little cherry. jem opened the door and came softly in. "meg," he said, in a smothered voice, "god has sent us two little children instead of the one he's took to himself. here is dickie for you to comfort." meg opened her arms, and jem laid dickie in them. "no one shan't hurt you any more, dickie, while we live," he said; "don't you have any more fear." the child had given one rapid glance at meg's face, and the moment he recognized her he nestled down confidently in her arms, while cherry stood by with happy tears running down her cheeks. "it's a solemn charge, jem," said his mother. "cherry says she's been askin' jesus to find a home for him for ever so long, and now it's come," answered jem. "cherry, child," said mrs. seymour, "you come up with me, and i'll put you to bed, and to-morrow we'll talk it all over." "yes, to-morrow i must go and see their father at the hospital. i trust he'll live till then." "you won't be 'fraid for 'cherry' to go to bed, dickie?" asked the little girl, looking down on him as he lay. dickie shook his head. "i'll stay along of mo'ver-meg," he said. jem sat down, quite overcome, and drew the trembling little cherry within his kind arm. her eyes were wandering round the cosy bedroom, which reminded her so forcibly of her mother's; and when she saw the cot, she thought how lovely it would be to have a baby to hold. but when jem saw her glance resting there he whispered softly, so as not to disturb meg, "the little 'un's gone to be with god, cherry; you and dickie is come to us instead." cherry's eyes filled with tears, and she laid her head on jem's kind shoulder, repressing her sobs by a great effort. "cherry," said mrs. seymour, "there's my bed up-stairs, you shall have a good sleep on that; come along, child, or it will be morning." cherry looked towards dickie, as if even now loth to let him out of her sight. "stay," added mrs. seymour; "let's have a cup of tea first, and some bread and milk for dickie. i dare say you haven't had much? i had just made some before you came." cherry shook her head. mrs. seymour soon put a steaming cup into jem's hand, and another into cherry's. then she cut some bread for them, and placed some in meg's little saucepan for the child. after which she went to the bed and took him out, telling meg she should soon have him again if she wished, but that he was hungry. meg was too tired and peaceful to say a word. "he does all things well," she thought, and lay quietly sleeping, not noticing the hushed noises which were going on around her. she had no idea that jem left her to lie down on the sofa in the next room; nor that her mother-in-law took little dickie on her knee and fed him tenderly; nor that she bathed his eyes with warm water; nor that she refilled the baby's bath, and with cherry's help undressed and bathed him. "it is nice," said the poor little fellow, as the kind old woman sat with him on her lap before the fire, and slipped over his head a clean warm little nightgown brought down from her airing-horse up-stairs. "it's mrs. blunt's," she explained to cherry; "but i'm not a bit afraid but what she'll lend it to him for a night or two. wasn't it fortunate that she happened to send it in amongst the sheets i do for her? she don't ever send me these sort of things, but this one came for the purpose, i do believe! don't he look different?" "he do indeed," answered poor little yawning cherry. "i never see him look so nice since mother used to undress him. i did the best i could, ma'am, but it was so dreadful hard to keep 'im clean." mrs. seymour shook her head kindly. "i know it was, child," she said. she was going to add that she did not know how her jem was going to support two children; but a glance at cherry's happy face stopped her, and she only added softly-- "you can wash your face and hands too, child, and then you shall go to bed." "are you goin' to bed?" whispered cherry. "not to-night, my dear," glancing towards meg, "but i'll doze a bit in this chair. now, dickie, shall i put you back in the nice warm bed with meg, as i promised?" dickie nodded. she rose, and opening the clothes as gently as she could, she put the clean warm little boy close to meg's side. meg instantly felt him, and understood enough, without rousing herself, to say in a soft little tone of endearment-- "come along, dickie; you won't mind staying with me?" "no; i'll stay along of mo'ver-meg," said dickie; and as he said it, he put his thin little arms about her neck and kissed her. then without another word they both sank into dreamless slumber. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. dickie's attic. when mrs. seymour had placed the tired little cherry in her own nice bed, and had made miss hobson understand in a few words who it was who would be found in the morning sharing her room, she returned to the next floor and looked round. in the bedroom meg and dickie slept the sleep of the utterly weary, and leaving them for a moment she went to look after her son jem. he too slept soundly, though he had not undressed, but lay covered by a blanket on the sofa. the clock on the mantel-piece pointed to two, the fire was out, and the room desolate. making her own determination, but leaving it for the present for fear of disturbing jem, she went back to meg. she stood by the side of the little cot and gazed long and earnestly at the face of her grandchild. her grandchild! how she had longed to welcome it! how she had counted on hearing its little feet patter about in her room! how she had yearned to see her jem with his child on his knee! instead of that, a dead baby lay in the cradle; and in meg's embrace slept a little stranger child, taken, as it were, out of the very gutter; and in jem's arms had stood a little cripple, who might be a care to him all his days. mrs. seymour could hardly believe that all this had happened in one day--that it could be only yesterday when she had felt that everything was going so well with the pair whom she loved better than herself. she sat down in meg's low chair, and looked into the fire with a troubled face. she argued to herself that jem and meg little knew the burden they were taking up; and even if they dimly understood it, they were not able to look into the future, and could not know what the years might bring. while these thoughts were passing through her mind, she seemed to see something written across the fire as she gazed into it. the words were familiar, and yet she could not make them out in their order. she shut her eyes, but still they came again, haunting her with a rebuke as thorough as it was gentle. was it the holy spirit, who teaches all those who are wanting to do their father's will? "i was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: i was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: i was a stranger, and ye took me in. verily i say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." "my lord, have i grudged thee?" she said, her old eyes dimmed with rare tears. "oh, forgive me, and let me do my part towards taking thee in!" when the clock struck six she rose and softly went into the front room. with as little sound as possible she set jem's breakfast, and lighted his fire; putting on the kettle and preparing his room against he should awake. after that she made some gruel for her daughter, on the clear little fire she had noiselessly kept up all night, and when all was done, she decided it was time to wake jem. but when she entered his room again he was already up, all traces of fatigue gone from his face, and her own cheerful jem stood before her. she signed to him that meg was still asleep, and closing the door behind her, she set about making the tea, jem asking her in a low tone what sort of a night his wife had passed. "beautiful," said mrs. seymour; "she hasn't waked once since i put dickie back; and while they're all asleep i want to talk to you, jem. shall we sit down and have a bit of breakfast, so as to be ready when we are wanted?" jem willingly complied, and began at once on the subject that was uppermost in his mother's thoughts. "i dare say, mother, that you think as meg and me must ha' gone crazy last night?" "i _did_ think so, but----" "it wasn't so bad as that," jem went on, smiling slightly, "for meg and me has often talked about dickie and cherry; and meg had said if she got through this, she should do her best to find 'em, and try to teach cherry somethin' or 'nother to get her livin'." mrs. seymour listened. she had intended to give her son a lecture on caution and rash haste, but since those words had shone out upon her, she could hear nothing but the tender "inasmuch--ye have done it unto me." how could she say anything after that? "of course we neither of us thought on it comin' all of a heap like this, mother; and we didn't guess as our lord was goin' to take away with one hand while he gave with t'other! but it's his doin', and we ain't goin' to grumble. meg said, 'blessed be the name of the lord,' and if she could say it, i won't be behind her." mrs. seymour got up to poke the fire, and as she passed her son's chair, she bent and kissed his forehead in silence. "dear mother!" he said affectionately, "i knew as it 'ud be a sore trial to you; but----" "don't say a word more, jem," she said; "i'll help you all i can, and after a bit we shall see how things turns out. if you decide to keep cherry with you, and she is a good girl, i'll promise you as i'll let her share my bed; and there'll often be a bit of breakfast for her too. i 'ain't given so much to my lord as that i can't spare a little more. i feel to-day as if i'd never done nothing for him. 'inasmuch'----!" "that's right down kind o' you, mother. if you'd seen all as i saw last night, you'd find it easier to understand what i felt." "was it so bad, jem? i never saw you take on like that before." "_bad?_" echoed jem. "why, mother, if any one'd 'a told me about it i wouldn't ha' given it credit. "i went out last night more to pacify meg than because i thought as i could do any good. the streets was mighty dark, 'cause ye know it was wet, and when i got to the door, i thought i'd got the right 'un, but i couldn't be sure. but when i pushed it open and listened, i could hear the crying, and up i went to the very top, as quiet as i could, wondering what on earth i could give as a excuse for bein' there if any one interfered with me. "nobody did. they was all settled in to bed, that is, those as had 'em. leastways they was settled to sleep. as i got near the top there was a bit of light out of the door, and when i got to the landin' i just paused and took a look in. "there was a man sittin' over a bit of fire, sulky like; and there was a woman bustlin' about gettin' somethin'; and there was cherry holdin' dickie, and cryin' as if her heart would break. and while i looks the woman comes to her, and drags dickie away, and when cherry tries to hold her off from him, she lays it on to her with a stick till poor little cherry lets go at last. then the woman seizes dickie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might. "'take it away,' he moans, 'i s'an't have it. take me away from 'em, cherry! cherry, take it off!' "oh, how his screams rings in my ears now. i could ha' rushed in and knocked her down, that i could; but i'm glad i didn't interfere then, for i should ha' lost the little 'un if i had. they'd ha' made off with him fast enough. "so i was just turnin' away on the dark stairs when the woman came towards the door. i stood back behind it as flat as i could, and she brushed past without seein' me. "the moment she was gone i could see cherry creep towards her little brother and lift the bandage. 'you'll get hit agin,' said the sulky man in a low voice; 'there's nothing but the p'lice, cherry. i wish some 'un would give 'em a wink. i'm goin' down to bed.' "he shuffled off to one of the lower rooms, and passed me as the woman had done without seeing me. fearin' i should be questioned, and not makin' up my mind whether to let the poor little things know as i was there, i came out to collect my thoughts. the man had given me a hint. what if i should go in and rescue the children with the knowledge of the p'lice? "i hastened down-stairs and reached the air without meetin' any one. then i came home to you and meg; but when i saw our own little 'un lyin' there so still and sweet, and knew that he, anyways, could never know those cruel blows, it wholly overcame me. and you know the rest, mother." "i don't know how you got 'em, jem, at last?" "no more you do. well, when meg said as they was to come home here, i rushed out; and the first p'liceman i found i tells him the story. "he didn't half believe me, but i says to him, 'you come up and stand outside the door, and if i can't persuade 'em, i'll call you. i don't want to have a row if i can get the children peaceable.' "'ain't they got no one belongin' to 'em?' he says, as we got to the door. "'their mother's dead and their father drinks; he might be anywhere,' i says to him. "'i'll tell you where _he_ is, then,' he says, 'if this is the house. he's dyin' in the hospital, he is. he was run over this mornin'.' "'is _that_ their father?' says i; and, mother, if you'll believe me, i felt all at once as if they ought to belong to me, since i'd been saved, and this man of my name had been took. "so we went up, and when we come to the door she'd begun beatin' of cherry again. "'stop that!' i says, goin' in quick, and she looked as if she'd been shot. 'and now i've come to fetch these 'ere little 'uns away. i've seen yer cruelty to 'em, and if you make a fuss i'll expose you, as sure as my name's jem seymour.' "with that she stares at me hard, and i go to dickie and untie his eyes once more. they was terrible bad by this time, and he only cried more than ever at the light, and ran to cherry. "'come, cherry,' i says to her, 'there's them outside as will see justice done this time. come along with me; put that shawl round dickie, and never you fear, my dear.' "then i turned to her as they call old sairy--'as for you,' says i, 'if you're ever seen with such another little 'un as this, i'll give you in charge that instant!' "cherry lifted dickie up, but she was too sore to carry him. so i took him in my arms, and he clung round my neck, and so we come away. the woman was too scared to say a word, but i think as she caught sight of the p'liceman's helmet as we went down." mrs. seymour sat with her breakfast almost untasted. "oh, god be thanked as they are safe," she said at last. "jem, you did quite right." "i think as i did," he answered; "but it's a cruel world, mother." "and that child, cherry, said as she was praying for a home?" asked mrs. seymour presently. "yes; she told me so as we come along. her little heart was near breakin'." mrs. seymour said no more, but went into the back room to see if meg had waked. still she and dickie slept; so leaving the door ajar, she ascended to her own rooms, taking a cup of tea in her hand for her lodger. she found her awake, and very glad of the tea and the latest news. while they were talking cherry raised her head from her pillow and looked round startled. then she saw mrs. seymour's kind face, and understood it all. "have you slept long enough, my dear?" she asked. "i think so; when i opened my eyes at first i thought it was two years ago, and that this was our home before father took to drink so bad." "did your mother die since then?" "yes," said cherry; "i forget exactly, but one thing i know, she was dreadfully ill on christmas day--not this last one, nor the one before that, but two years ago--and she died in a few days. soon after that father got bad; he used to drink afore, but not so much; and then our things went one by one, and at last----" cherry shuddered. "at last?" questioned mrs. seymour. "he got tired of me askin' for food for me and dickie, and we'd been a long time livin' in that big room where's there's such a lot of 'em, and then he agrees with old sairy to take dickie out with her, and let him share the profits; and he was out with 'em for i should say nigh on six months. at last dickie was took so ill that he couldn't walk another step, and for a long time i thought he'd 'a died; i wished he had." "and was that when you began to know my meg?" "yes. oh, she was awful kind to us. and then we went hoppin', and father and me earned a lot; but he hadn't been home but a little while afore he'd drunk up every bit of it, and then he thinks of sendin' dickie out ag'in; and then they was that cruel to us both. look here!" she undid some of her poor little dress, and bared her thin, deformed shoulders. they were scarred with red seams and black and blue lines. "why did they beat you?" asked mrs. seymour, her face turning white at the sight. "'cause i wouldn't let 'em hurt dickie, not while i could hold 'em back; but it weren't of no use, they always got the best of me at the end." "poor little girl," said mrs. seymour, stroking cherry's head tenderly; "poor little motherless girl!" cherry's eyes looked up gratefully. "oh, ma'am," she exclaimed earnestly, "if they'll keep dickie safe from old sairy i'll do anything for 'em--anything in the world that i can. i can learn things pretty quick--mother used to say so. do you think as you could teach me anything?" "i think we can, cherry, if you're a good girl." "i will try to be," she said humbly. "and please don't think, ma'am, as i've took to bad ways, 'cause--" cherry's voice was choked, and she could say no more. had the child guessed a certain holding back in mrs. seymour's manner. "why?" she asked gravely. "'cause," answered cherry in a low voice, "i've never forgot what mother taught me. she said as i belonged to jesus. when i thought of that--" "well?" asked mrs. seymour gently. "i tried to please him," said cherry, hiding her face in the pillow. mrs. seymour bent over her. "forgive me, little cherry; i was so afraid--but now i'm not. look up, dear, and give me a kiss." cherry put her arms round her neck without a word; and then mrs. seymour asked her if she would not like some breakfast soon? cherry's eyes brightened. "oh, ma'am," she said, "i've not had anything but a crust for so long that i gave up callin' it breakfast." "well, child, when you have made yourself a bit tidy you come down as quiet as you can, and see what i'm about. there's jem's teapot on the hob for you, and some nice bread and butter. dickie's fast asleep now, and i must go back to them." she went to seek jem, who was not in the front room. she came to the open door, and saw him standing looking intently into the cradle. he turned hastily when he saw his mother, and signed to her to go into the other room, whither he followed quickly. "mother," he said, in a low tone, "what must i do about the little babe?" he spoke in a smothered voice, and his mother knew the pang he must feel, now the excitement of all that had happened on the previous day was passing off. she gave him a few brief instructions, and after saying he understood, he presently added, "mother, i shall go to my master's, and ask him to let me off for a few hours. there ain't nothin' particular doin', so i dare say he'll make no objections. you see i've got to go about this----; and then when i come back cherry and me must go to the hospital. i've been told as he's not expected to live the day. d'ye think my meg'ull be awake when i come back?" "very likely she will. and, jem, tell mrs. blunt as you pass, as i want her to step up for a few minutes. i've done by her clothes as i've never done by no one's, all these twenty years that i've washed for people. i've let some one belongin' to me wear one! what do you think of your old mother now, jem?" "it's what she'll think," answered jem with a slight smile. "i'll tell her to step up anyway." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiv. in the hospital. jem came back within the hour. he found his meg awake and calm. she had had some breakfast, and was now lying with her hand clasped in little dickie's with a serene smile on her face. as for the child, he lay on the soft white pillow with his eyes closed from the light, dozing occasionally and then rousing just enough to understand the tender care that surrounded him, and to realize that he need have no fear now. "cherry," he said, without moving, hearing jem's entrance and believing it to be his sister, "is this what ye asked jesus to send me?" "yes," answered cherry, who was standing on the other side of the bed, "only i didn't know as the lord jesus would send anything so very nice as this." dickie assented, adding with a little sigh of satisfaction, "i never want to get up no more." "you shall lie here as long as you like," said meg assuringly. "now, dickie, open your eyes and look at jem." "i can't open my eyes," answered dickie, "'cause they hurt so; but i'm glad fa'ver-jem has come back." "am i to be 'father-jem'?" asked the man, bending down to look closer into the little face. "yes," said dickie; "if it's 'mo'ver-meg,' it must be 'fa'ver-jem.'" jem smiled and then sighed. he had hoped for something different from this; but what if his father's will had arranged it so? "you do not mind, jem?" came in meg's soft voice. "his feeling so has made me very happy." "so it shall me, sweetheart," he answered, taking the child henceforward right into his big heart. then he turned to cherry. "make haste and put on your hat, cherry," he said to her; "for i want to get your poor father to give you to us to take care of. d'ye think he will?" cherry looked doubtful. it was on her lips to say, "father would do anything for drink," but she felt it would be cruel to even think such a thing now, and she hastily dismissed the thought. and as it went another came--"i'll ask jesus to help." so when she put on her shabby little hat, and turned down-stairs with jem, the uppermost thought in her heart came to be, "oh, if only poor father could love jesus; i shouldn't mind about being happy myself." perhaps jem's mind was running on the same subject, for he walked along very silently by her side. once he turned to her to take her little thin hand, and to ask her if he were walking too fast, but after that he scarcely spoke till they stood inside the hospital. he felt cherry's hand trembling so much then, that he stooped to her, and spoke in a whisper. "there's naught to be afraid of, dear," he said; "and if you're thinkin' of your poor father, the best plan as i know on is to tell god about that." cherry looked up. did he guess from her eyes that she had already done so? they soon found themselves in the accident ward, and in a moment were standing by a bed in which cherry could recognize her father's form. "i don't suppose it'ull be much use," said the nurse in a low tone; "he hasn't taken a bit of notice since he was brought in; the only word he says is 'dickie,' and you don't either of you seem to be him." jem shook his head. "may i speak to him?" "oh, yes; but you mustn't be disappointed if he don't notice." she made a gesture which implied that he had not long to live, and then stood off at a little distance; while cherry, at a sign from jem, bent towards the bed and whispered, "father!" [illustration: jem took the child out of the chair and wrapped his arms round him pacing up and down the room with him on his breast.--p. .] the suffering man moved uneasily and groaned. "father, i'm so sorry as you're hurt. don't you know your little cherry?" "dickie, dickie!" said the man despairingly. "do you want dickie?" asked cherry, trembling. "no, no, no; only i wish he hadn't been hurt. dickie, dickie!" "father," said cherry, gathering courage from jem's eyes, "father, you know as i and dickie pray to the lord jesus?" the miserable man seemed to be listening. "well, father, we asked him to find some one to take care of dickie, and--" "they'll have him again," broke in the man. "i said as i'd give 'im over to 'em, and they'll hold to 'im. it ain't a bit o' use. oh, i can't talk to yer. oh, my dreadful pain! to think dickie should ever suffer like this; and i took no heed of it when i might." "but, father," said cherry, restraining her tears by a violent effort, "there's stronger than them as has dickie in hand. don't ye see that jesus is stronger than them?" the man only groaned afresh. "and jesus has heard me and dickie askin' him, and he's found us such a nice home. father, 'ull you be willin' to give us to those as is so good to us?" "who?" asked the man, for the first time opening his eyes. "to me," said jem, coming close. "i've taken 'em from old sairy, and they shan't ever go back, if you'll say as you will let me and meg be their guardians." the poor dying eyes were eagerly scanning jem's face; they returned to cherry's as if satisfied. "their mother was a good woman," he said. "so cherry tells me. we'll do our best to teach them to be good too." the man turned his head away as if he had done with the subject, and indeed with all earthly things. then, just as cherry and jem were looking at each other in dismay, he roused himself once more. "you may 'ave 'em," he said. jem signed to the nurse to draw near. "tom seymour," he said solemnly, "do you make my wife and me guardians of your two children, cherry and dickie?" "yes," said the man distinctly; "and god grant as you may keep the charge better'n i've done." "god will help us," said jem, taking the hand which lay outside the counterpane; "and, my friend, god will help _you_. if you turn to him now he will receive you." the man drew away his hand with impatient pain. "that's past for me," he said between his teeth. "no, it isn't, father," exclaimed cherry. "if jesus 'as been so good to you as to take dickie away from old sairy, don't ye think as he can be kind enough as to take you from satan?" "i'm too bad, cherry; it ain't no use talkin'. you've tried, my girl, a score o' times. and so did yer mother; it ain't a bit o' good. leave me to die now. if dickie's all right, i can't 'elp the rest." cherry's eyes looked despairingly at jem, but he encouraged her to try again, himself only praying silently that some word, winged by the power of the mighty spirit, might enter that hard heart. "ain't you goin' to _thank_ jesus, then?" asked poor little cherry. "he's been awful kind to dickie, father." the man was silent; but cherry thought he heard her nevertheless. "you did love dickie, father?" "and i _do_," flashed the man angrily; "howsoever cruel i've been, i do love the little 'un." "and dickie loves jesus," pursued cherry, soothingly; "and if you was to ask dickie which he'd rather you'd love, he'd say as he'd like you to love _jesus_. i know he would." "it ain't no good now," said her father hopelessly. "why ain't it, dear father?" "'cause i've sinned till--it ain't no good now." "but jesus is sorry, and he'll forgive if you'll ask him. father--i _know_ he will. he says somethin' about 'wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow.'" "ah! that's them as can be washed." and then jem said earnestly-- "'though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'" "it's because jesus died instead of us, father," added cherry, weeping. "oh, father, why don't ye come to him?" the man did not answer her. wearied out with pain and emotion, he lay exhausted; nor would the nurse allow any more talking. "you can come again this evening," she said, looking into cherry's woe-begone face. "he may live till then." with this they were forced to be satisfied, and cherry turned away with a sad heart. slowly they made their way home again, while cherry's halting steps seemed to drag more wearily than they had done while hope beat in her bosom. tear after tear coursed down her cheeks, and it was with difficulty that she could guide herself in the crowded thoroughfare. at last jem, seeing this, took her hand again, and sought for words of comfort. "you mustn't doubt god, child," he said kindly; "we're all apt to think as he can't do nothin' without us. but 'tis oftentimes when we have done all as is in our power, and yet have failed, that he can work best. me and meg was readin' yesterday--why, it was only yesterday!" he exclaimed, stopping to interrupt himself,--"we was readin' afore i went to my work some such words as these: 'not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the lord.' and, cherry, it seems to me as it ain't when we can do most, but when we'll let _him_ do most, as he can work best." cherry listened and took courage, and though she did not say a word, she thanked jem from the bottom of her little heart. when they presented themselves at the hospital again that evening, and asked to be allowed to see tom seymour, the answer came like a knell to them both: "he died at three o'clock." "dead?" asked cherry; and no one knew the depths of that crippled orphan's heart at that moment. no one but god; but he knew, and pitied. dead! and no messages of god's love, no assurances of forgiveness, no pardoning grace could reach him now. he had sunk into the grave, in spite of all her efforts, all her prayers, unsaved! a hand touched her arm. it was the nurse's who had stood by them that morning. "come in here," she said, leading the way to a little comfortless room where people waited. it was empty now, and the nurse closed the door. she held out to jem the piece of paper he had left with her that morning, containing his address in case of his being wanted. under his name was written, in the doctor's hand, "i, tom seymour, leave my children to his care," and then there was a weak straggling cross, and the doctor's signature as witness. "when you were gone," explained the nurse, "he never spoke for an hour or so, and we didn't disturb him, because we knew he couldn't recover. you see the accident went hard with him, because he drank so. well, after an hour or two he woke up, and he called as before, 'dickie!' "i went to him to quiet him, and he asked 'if the carpenter (meaning you, i suppose, mr. seymour) was there, and cherry?' "i told him that you were coming again, and asked if he wanted you to be fetched. "'i don't know where he lives,' he said; 'but it don't matter. ask the doctor to write it down.' "the doctor was going his rounds, and when he had done with his patient i asked him to come, and he wrote at the poor fellow's request those words on that paper, to which he managed to put his cross. after that he was terribly bad for ever so long; it had hurt him so to move. i knew he wouldn't last long, and i offered to send for the little girl, but he only shook his head. "'she wouldn't be here in time,' he said; 'but when she comes, tell her as the last word as her poor father said was, 'wash me, and i shall be----' "he couldn't finish it; so i said the end of it to him, 'whiter than snow.' "'yes, "whiter than snow," sins like crimson, "wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow."' "he didn't speak again, but after a bit i looked at him, and he tried to reach my hand. though i don't understand that sort of talk myself, thinking to please him, i took his in mine, and said again, 'wash me, and i shall be whiter than snow,' and he gave one look at me, and then one long look up, and so passed away." cherry took the nurse's kind hand and covered it with kisses and tears; she tried to utter her thanks, but was choked. and when she and jem turned homewards once more, though her tears were pouring, they were far more grateful than sad, as the words seemed to ring in her ears: "not by might, but by my spirit, saith the lord of hosts." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xv. the empty cradle. when cherry and jem had really set forth to the hospital, meg, who had been lying very quiet for some time, opened her eyes and spoke to her mother-in-law. "are you very busy, dear mother?" she asked. "no, my dear, i have nothing to do now but to wait on you. do you want anything?" meg was silent for a moment, and mrs. seymour saw traces of tears on her face, which, however, meg was evidently anxious should not be noticed. "you feel a little low, my dear," observed mrs. seymour kindly; "but you will be better soon, i hope." "no," said meg; "i don't exactly feel low, mother; but should you think it very wrong in me to ask you to let me hold him once more?" "will it upset you, my child?" "i think not--i will try not; but, mother, i had so looked forward to it, and i should like to hold him once more." mrs. seymour made no further objection, but went into the other room, whither the little cradle had been carried, and lifted the tiny baby out carefully. she brought it to meg's side, placed it in her arms, and then went back to clear away jem's tea, leaving the young mother alone with her grief. dickie slept quietly, and meg could cry over her babe unseen. she could lay her cheek against its little head, she could wrap her arms round it, she could press her lips upon its lifeless ones. but after all it was lifeless, and meg shed some bitter tears over the thought that it could never know her love; but by-and-by these were wiped away. the remembrance stole over her that her little child was only parted from her for a short time, and was meanwhile in such safe keeping as she could never hope, at the best, to give it here. "the lord gave, and the _lord_ hath taken away," she murmured half aloud. "he has got him safe waiting for me." whether her soft words woke dickie, or whether her slight movements had done so, she did not know; but at this moment he turned over and flung his arms about her neck. "are you awake, dear?" she asked, hoping he would not notice the little form lying at the other side of her. "yes, mo'ver-meg. are you cryin'?" "i was crying, dickie, but i'm better now." "what for?" asked the child. "because i had a little baby-boy, and the lord jesus has taken him to his home." dickie pondered. "did that make yer _cry_, mo'ver-meg?" "yes, dear; but i shan't cry any more," at which words meg burst into such weeping that dickie was frightened, and mrs. seymour came in from the other room. she was going to take the babe, but meg put out her hand beseechingly. "one moment, dear mother," she said. mrs. seymour waited while meg pressed one long kiss on the little face, and then she allowed her mother to bear her child away from her sight. meanwhile dickie with clinging arms was trying to comfort her in his tender little way, and meg turned round and yielded herself to his caresses. "is the home jesus 'as taken him to better than this?" he asked in his gentlest tones. "oh, yes!" said meg, drying her eyes, and trying to stop her tears. "then why do yer mind, mo'ver-meg?" "because he's gone away from _me_, dickie. but i shan't be sorry soon." "and fa'ver-jem said as he'd sent me _instead_," said dickie comfortably, "and so that's nice for ev'wybody." meg smiled, though she almost cried again. "yes, dickie," she answered, "and i'm not sorry for that part of it. i'm sure our father in heaven knows best, and will make me glad in time that he has taken my little baby." dickie laid his soft cheek against her face, and then meg saw her mother-in-law coming in with a little tray in her hand. "look, dickie," she said; "here is a kind mother with some gruel or something for us. why, here are two basins! how kind she is. can you open your eyes now, dickie?" he tried, but quickly put up his hand to shield them from the light. "how bad they are!" remarked mrs. seymour. "meg, did jem say what they did to him?" "no," answered meg, shuddering. "he said it was so dreadful, yet so easy that he should never tell it, lest any one else should be so cruel." "how strange!" said mrs. seymour. "did the doctor say this morning that they should be tied up?" asked meg. "no; only bathed often. he said while he kept them shut of his own accord it was better not to harass him with a bandage. he looked very serious over it, meg." meg did not answer. she was stroking the little face tenderly, and smoothing the soft brown curls. "poor little man," she whispered at length. mrs. seymour fed the child with a spoon, and just as she had finished a knock came at the sitting-room door, which she went to answer. meg guessed what it was, but she lay quiet, her thoughts dwelling on what dickie had suggested--that the home above was better than this. mrs. seymour did not return for some time, nor indeed till the steps of jem and cherry were heard coming back from the hospital. she went outside to meet them, telling cherry to go up-stairs, and preparing jem by a low word for what he would find in his room when he entered. though he knew it would be so, the little coffin having been promised at seven o'clock, yet it was a shock to him after all; and he was glad that his kind mother had let him go alone into the room, that he might have time to get over his feelings. mrs. seymour, finding that meg was quiet, and even cheerful, went up-stairs to look after cherry, and to see if her invalid lodger should want anything. she found the poor child sitting near the fire, looking very mournful; and guessing at once that she had lost her father, she went up to her and kissed her kindly, saying-- "you must tell me all about it presently, dear child. just now i want you to help me as nicely as you did this morning." cherry looked up, greatly relieved to be set to work at something. "what can i do?" she asked. "let us get the bath ready for dickie again, and then you go down and fetch him, cherry. wrap this about him. he is awake; but i shall bathe him up here, for i think meg has had enough excitement." cherry quickly understood, and in a few minutes all was ready, and she was standing by meg's side asking dickie if he would not like another warm bath. "i'd rather stay 'ere," said dickie; "but you'll let me come back, cherry?" "oh, yes; only mrs. seymour has got such a lovely fire for yer, dickie; and i'm goin' to try to carry yer up." meg added her word that it would be very nice; so dickie allowed himself to be lifted out of bed. "i 'tom back soon," he nodded, as he was borne towards the door. "yes, dear." then as cherry went out, jem came in from the other room, and sat down by his wife's side. "let me carry him, dear," said mrs. blunt's voice outside. "he's too heavy for you, and i was just a-goin' up." "oh, thank you; but i often do carry him," said cherry. "my! ain't he light? well, dear," to the child, "you're not afraid as i am old sairy?" for mrs. blunt had heard the whole story from miss hobson that morning. "no," said dickie; but the very name made him tremble, and mrs. blunt, perceiving it, knew she should not have said that. when he was placed on mrs. seymour's lap, mrs. blunt produced something which she had carried on her arm. "there!" she said, with evident delight; "don't you think as we've been quick? this little nightgown was calico in the shop at nine o'clock this mornin', and here it is ready for him to put on now." "you've made it for him?" asked mrs. seymour, too astonished to find words. "that we have! when you sent for me this mornin' to tell me about borrowin' mine--bless 'im, he was welcome to it!--and to ask me to 'elp you with your laundry work, as 'as been put so behind this week, i ran down to jenny to see if she would mind my children. (she's a kind girl at a pinch.) and then thinks i, 'mrs. seymour won't be ready with her irons and things for a few minutes;' and i pops on my bonnet, and takes the little 'uns round to the shop to get the calico. we was back in no time, and there was jenny smiling at the door waitin' for me. "'jenny,' says i to her, 'i know as you're good at your needle, and i want to surprise mrs. seymour. i haven't made a present to any one these many years, but if you'll help me, i will to-day!' "jenny, she takes it in as kind as anythink. "'all right,' she says. 'and i'll mind those precious babies of yours, and do the work as well; for i'm right down sorry for 'em up-stairs, that i am.' "so we cut it out, and she was set-to with her needle afore i come up to you. when i got down again at twelve o'clock, after you'd finished with me, she'd done more than half of it, that she had!" mrs. blunt was out of breath, so cherry unfolded the little nightgown and showed it to dickie, who, however, only smiled gratefully, but did not venture more than a peep with his poor little inflamed eyes. mrs. seymour was so pleased at the thoughtful kindness that she could not say much. "don't think as i grudged him the _other_!" said mrs. blunt; "but i thought as you'd feel it nicer for him to have one of his own." "i'm sure meg will take it very kind of you," said mrs. seymour, gratefully. "kind!" echoed mrs. blunt. "nothin' as i could do for her would be kind, after all she has done for me. why, my dear, i'm a new woman!" mrs. seymour was too surprised to answer, and mrs. blunt went on earnestly: "'tisn't only as i have a tidy dress now, and a clean room, and better food, but 'tis the inside of me as is different. instead of frettin' over the little money i've got, she's taught me to make the most of it; and instead of being cross, and tired, and miserable, she's taught me as there is one above as cares for me, and will bear my burdens and lighten 'em, and comfort and cheer me into the bargain. there! if ye don't think that's enough to make a body grateful, i don't know what is." "is that mo'ver-meg," asked dickie, "as you're talkin' on?" "yes," said mrs. seymour, softly. "she's a dear mother-meg, isn't she?" "cherry and me's goin' to stay 'long of her," he said, addressing himself to mrs. blunt. "i know you are. you're happy children." cherry smiled brightly; and then mrs. blunt, having said her say, bethought herself of her children and hurried away, only pausing at the door to say, "t'other one's cut out, and we'll make it as soon as we can; only to-morrer's sunday." yes, to-morrow was sunday; and in the afternoon the little coffin was carried away and laid in the cold ground; while meg, shedding no more tears, but full of peace, listened to cherry's musical voice. though she was very small for her age, she was a good scholar, and read fluently. meg had chosen the account, in the eleventh chapter of john, of the lord's sympathy: how he waited, that he might bless the more abundantly; how he wept, showing himself the comforter of all who mourn; how he raised the dead, and gave precious promises of everlasting life to all who believe in him. cherry and meg, both mourning, and both needing the heavenly food which should sustain their souls, found in that chapter, and above all in that beloved saviour of whom the chapter treats, the rest and comfort that they needed. when jem came back from seeing the earth laid over his child, he met the glance of meg's serene eyes and wondered. she held out her hand and clasped his. "jem," she said, "come and read this over again to us, and then you'll get comforted, as we have been." so jem sat down and read it all through again, and got lifted, as they had been, from the dark grave to the bright sky, where he dwells "who liveth, and was dead," and is "alive for evermore." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xvi. "they shall see his face." as long as meg was not well enough to get up, dickie kept his resolve of staying in bed too. whether he had an undefined feeling that he was safer there, no one could guess; but whenever mrs. seymour or cherry tried to coax him to be dressed, he always shook his head and answered, "i 'ike to stay 'long of mo'ver--meg." one day meg, thinking of all this, said to him, "dickie, i'm going into the other room to-day. cherry has made it all ready for me, and i'm going to have tea with jem." dickie was silent, but his lip trembled. so meg quickly went on, "shall i ask cherry to dress you, dearie, so as to be up to tea with father-jem too?" "i can't wun about," said dickie despondently. "but you can sit by me," returned meg; "and father-jem has a secret for you." "has he?" asked dickie, looking interested. "did you not hear him hammering and planeing in the other room?" dickie nodded. "were that the secret?" "i think so; would you not like to be dressed and see?" cherry stood looking on, and now added her persuasions; and dickie, in hopes of finding out "the secret," allowed himself to be arrayed in his clothes, which, under mrs. seymour's soap and water and skilful fingers, could hardly be recognized for the same old garments which he had left off. cherry too had been busy, and with mrs. seymour's direction had made him two brown holland pinafores which covered patches with clean neatness. "oh, dickie!" exclaimed his sister, kissing him impulsively, "i never did see you look so nice since before mother was ill." "that he does," said meg, smiling. "now brush his hair, dear, and then he can sit on your lap till i am ready." it was a mild, sunshiny day in april when meg first walked into her sitting-room. cherry had been busy making everything as cosy as she could devise, and meg looked round with satisfaction. "you have been clever, cherry," she said. "mrs. seymour says i shall be very useful if i take pains," answered cherry, "and i have been trying very hard to, mother-meg, because i do eat so much." cherry said this with compunction, and meg laughed a little. "never mind that, dear. while i have been lying still i've been thinking of a lot of things you might do to get a little living." "have you?" asked cherry, sitting down by the fire with dickie on her knee. "yes; you might help mother with her washing sometimes; or you could learn to do nice needle-work. i mean to write to mrs. macdonald and ask her if she wants any done." "i did learn to work when i was at school," said cherry. "you see, cherry," pursued meg, "it is not that we would not keep you altogether if you needed it, or it were right; but it will be much better and happier for you to have something to do; and then if you could earn enough to get some neat clothes and put a little by, how nice that would be." dickie grew tired of this talk, and asked if his secret was going to be told. meg took him on her lap, and as he nestled his soft curls against her, she explained to him that they must wait till father-jem came home. just as she was saying this the doctor's quick rap was heard at their door, and he entered at once. "i am late, mrs. seymour," he said; "but i waited till the pressure of my work was over, because i want to have a good look at this little fellow's eyes. does he never try to use them?" "no," answered meg; "he seems to dread the light so much." "i'm afraid--" said the doctor, glancing up at her and stopping short. meg looked yearningly into the little face. "i think i was told he is not your own child?" "no," answered meg; "they are our adopted children." "what puzzled me was that his sister said his name was dickie seymour." "so it is," said meg, as if this were a new thought to her. "how strange i did not think of that; but he is no relation." "the best thing for him would be to go into the country," said the doctor, considering; "but i suppose that is out of the question. even then i doubt if he will ever--" meg looked at him startled. "do you mean that i am going to lose him?" she asked, not knowing how to put it so that dickie should not understand and be troubled. "no, no," said the doctor quickly, putting his hand in explanation to his own eyes. "but it would be a great thing to improve his health." "i will think it over," said meg, her thoughts instantly flying to her own dear mother and the little rose-covered cottage at home. "now, my little man, let me have a look into your eyes. don't be afraid; i'm not going to hurt you much." he proceeded to open the lids, in spite of dickie's wail of pain; while cherry stood by trembling, having well understood the tenor of the foregoing conversation. "it _does_ hurt me," said dickie, trying to draw away. "ah, well," said the doctor, letting him go; "time will show. can you see me now, or your sister?" but dickie only buried his head in meg's bosom, and would not be persuaded to try. just as the doctor was going out at the door he turned back and addressed cherry. "my little girl, are you old enough to have left school?" "yes, sir; i passed all the standards just before mother died." "indeed?--and what are you thinking of turning your hand to?" "anything i can get," answered cherry, blushing. "because the girl who used to clean my steps every morning has gone to a regular place, and i want some one else. would you like to do it?" [illustration: cherry went up-stairs to see if mrs. seymour should want her to do anything before she went to bed.--p. .] "very much, sir," she answered, smiling. "my servants are busy just then, and i do not like my steps to be cleaned after eight o'clock. you see, my house being a doctor's, people begin to come early." "i could be there as early as you like, sir," said cherry, looking towards meg for confirmation. "yes," answered meg, "and i'm much obliged to you for thinking of her, sir." "oh, as to that, she may as well have it as any one else. it is two shillings a week, and not very hard work." after arranging that cherry should begin the next morning, he bade them good day, and went off to finish his rounds. "oh, mother-meg, did you ever think i could have anything so nice?" asked cherry, kneeling down by her side, and laying her head on dickie's lap. "no, indeed," answered meg, "we must not forget to thank him who has sent it to us, cherry. how kind god is to us!" cherry did not answer in words, but she was very quiet for a long while, looking soberly into the fire. presently dickie, concluding that the doctor was gone, and that he need have no further fear of molestation, put up his little hand to stroke meg's face. "well, dear?" she said inquiringly, for there was a question on his lips. "mo'ver-meg, did the doctor say as you was goin' to _lose_ me?" "no, dearie, he did not think i should," said meg, soothingly. "'cause he _said_ so," persisted dickie. "he didn't mean that," answered meg softly; "and even if he had, dickie, those who love jesus can never be really lost." "i 'ove jesus," said dickie, considering, "and so do cherry." "i'm sure you do; and to those who love him he says, 'no man is able to pluck them out of my hand.' when once we are in the care of jesus, nothing shall ever drag us away from that." "is that why jesus has sent me to you, mo'ver-meg?" "i expect it is, dickie; he's been very good to you." dickie smiled happily, then started up expectantly. "there's fa'ver-jem!" he exclaimed. "so it is," cried meg. even then he did not attempt to look, but sat in an attitude of suppressed excitement, till jem really came in and shut the door. "where's my secret?" asked dickie eagerly. "let me speak to meg first," answered jem, coming to his wife's side and kissing her. "well, sweetheart, the room don't look like the same with you out of it, that's certain!" "no," said cherry, "i never saw her in it afore, but i couldn't think it 'ud look so much better." meg smiled at their love and praise, and then cherry made the tea. meanwhile jem went to the corner and uncovered something which stood there, bringing it forward to dickie, and telling him to look at what it was. dickie leaned forward, opened his eyes, gave a cry of pain, and then looked pitifully up in meg's face. "i can't see, mo'ver-meg; where is it? it's all dark 'ere. do light the lamp for me." but no lamp could be of any avail, as meg saw when he felt about with his tiny hands in the broad daylight to find his way to the secret. "here, darling," said meg, struggling with her tears, and commanding her voice by a great effort, "here is the secret; put your little hands and feel it." dickie, believing that the lamp had not yet been lighted, and not guessing or being capable of understanding the calamity which had fallen upon him, let her guide his hands to the arms of a little chair, high enough to reach the table. "for me?" asked dickie; "a chair for my werry own?" "yes," answered jem, taking him from meg and placing him in it. "see, dickie, you can play by the table or sit by the fire. i have made it for your very own." "kind fa'ver-jem," said dickie, contentedly. "now cherry, light the lamp, so as i can see it." meg looked at jem as if seeking strength from his pitying eyes; then she bent and laid her cheek against dickie's head as she said tenderly-- "it's because your eyes have been so bad, dear." "will they get better?" he asked. "i am not sure, dear." "i want to see my booful chair, and mo'ver-meg!" jem took the child out of the chair and wrapped his arms round him, pacing up and down the room with him on his breast. "kind fa'ver-jem," said dickie, settling himself in those strong arms. they went up and down for some minutes, while meg and cherry wept, and wiped away their tears in turn. by-and-by they heard dickie ask in a whisper-- "shall i ever get better, and be able to see my mo'ver-meg?" and jem answered, in that low husky voice which betokened strong emotion-- "i can't say as you will for certain, dickie, not here; but there's one thing as i do know on. in heaven we are promised, all of us who love him, to see his face; and that'll be better than even mother-meg's." dickie listened silently. "that 'a be _nice_," he said at last with a little sob. "yes, dickie," jem went on, still walking to and fro with soft even tread, "there is no sorrow nor sufferin' there, no cryin', nor pains, nor achin'; but he says they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads. don't ye think, dickie, as, if his holy name is in our foreheads, he'll take care of them as bears it?" dickie assented, but he was thinking of other things. "did ye say as my eyes 'ud be all right there, fa'ver-jem?" he asked at length. "yes; all right there. 'they shall see his face,'" answered jem. dickie was satisfied. "put me in my chair close to mo'ver-meg, fa'ver-jem, and she'll tell me all 'bout it. she allays does tell me such nice fings." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xvii. cherry's apology. that night, when cherry had gone up to bed in mrs. seymour's room, and dickie was fast asleep, meg and jem found themselves alone by their own fireside. "my girl," he said, when she turned her face towards him after a long look in the fire, "this is a funny change as has come across our life." "i hope it isn't a disappointment to you, jem," she said. "i mean about cherry and dickie." "no, my dear, no," he answered heartily. "if i had the choice over again i'd do the same." "so would i," said meg, "a hundred times over. i did not know all the joy it would bring. i never thought of it at first as anything but a care, that we did for our lord's sake. i never guessed it would turn into a blessing." "that's how the lord's way mostly is," said jem, thoughtfully; "but this about poor little dickie is a sad thing, meg, and will make him a great care. not that i grudge it--but as far as we can look ahead, it 'ull be more difficult nor if he could see." meg could not speak of it yet without tears, and she leant her head against jem's shoulder in silence. soon after this mrs. seymour came in, and jem put her into her chair, saying-- "mother, i was just thinking about you; for i want to ask your advice. i don't like to see this pale face. i want to send my meg down to the country for a week or two." meg turned and was going to speak, but jem put up his hand playfully, and went on-- "mrs. macdonald wants some more repairs done, and i'm to be sent there next week. now what could be better'n meg's goin' too?" "beautiful," said mrs. seymour. "cherry will help me nicely, and we'll manage to take care of dickie while she is away. wouldn't you like it, my dear?" "i was only going to say," said meg, "that the doctor told me this afternoon that it would be the very best thing for dickie. jem, might i take him?" jem stroked her cheek, which had flushed with eagerness, and he said, turning to mrs. seymour and smiling a little sadly-- "mother, she's like a hen with one chick; nobody can't take care of dickie but her." "oh, jem!" exclaimed meg. "no, more they can't, half as well," he went on. "nobody who has seen my meg for the last few weeks, but knows as she has the true motherly heart. i'd thought as our father above was goin' to give her one of her own to see after, but he's seen as it 'ud be nice for her to have two instead o' one. ah! meg, my girl, i've seen the meanin' of those words, 'as one whom his mother comforteth' since i've watched you." meg did not answer; she was thinking of the tiny white-robed form that had lain unresponsively in her arms. for a moment she felt very desolate. "but it would be very nice indeed for dickie to go with her," remarked mrs. seymour; "i am glad it's been proposed." then they explained as well as they could what had happened that evening, with the sad certainty which had come upon them, that the cruelty which had been practised on dickie had made him quite blind. "now i can understand what made cherry so dumpy," said mrs. seymour. "she came up-stairs as quiet as anything, and crept into bed with hardly a word. i've heard her sniffin' and that, for ever so long; indeed, that was partly why i came down to ask you if anythin' was the matter." "poor child," said jem, "i could see as she felt it very much. there, mother, we've had mercies and trials both mixed up, as you may say. here's my meg about again, as is the greatest joy i've had for a long time, and here's this trouble about poor little dickie. then cherry's got a nice beginnin' of somethin' to do, and she too has got to hear, as her little brother, what she's loved so tenderly, is blind." "well, my dear," answered mrs. seymour, "i'm gettin' to learn, a step at a time, as god leads his people along in the _best_ way. he knows just how to send the sunshine and cloud so as to make the fruits of the earth come to ripen; and it's so with us: if we was to have all sunshine we'd be dried up, and should not bear fruit for him, and if we was to have all cloud and rain, we'd be so damp and mildewy that i doubt if we should do much good. so he sends both, just as he sees best, to make us what he would have us be." "yes, mother," answered jem, thoughtfully; "i dare say as you're quite right." "you see, jem," she added, as she rose to go back to her own room, "i have a lot o' time to think, as i stand washin' and ironin', and where i used to think of other folks and a hundred things, now says i to myself, 'what can i do better than think on the lord, and all his ways?' so i put up a large-print bible i've got, where my eyes can light upon a word here and there, without stoppin' in my work, and you'd be surprised what a deal o' comfort i get." jem kissed her for good night very tenderly. "ah, mother!" he said, "i see another way of gettin' to bear fruit; and that is to spread your roots deep in the soil as the great gardener has got ready for us; i see that now, and i'll remember it." she bade meg good-bye, and went up-stairs again. "cherry, child," she began, coming close to the bed, "give grannie a kiss, and let's tell the lord all about it." poor cherry broke into sobs, as she raised her face to meet that of her friend. "child, there are many things to comfort you. he'll not be unhappy, my dear, even if he is blind. people will be kind to him, and he'll not miss it as much as you fear. but, whether or not, the best thing we can do is to come to the bottom at once. the lord knows, and the lord _loves_. cherry, he loves dickie more than you and meg do, and that's saying a great deal." then she knelt down, and taking cherry's hand in hers, she prayed that they might all be able to trust him who loved them, both when he sent cloud and when he sent sunshine. and then cherry, yielding herself to submit to the cloud, suddenly remembered the flash of sunshine which had been sent her that day, and cheered up and took courage. when mrs. seymour rose, she put up her face once more. "oh, grannie!--may i call you grannie?--how good you are to me. indeed, i will try to be a good girl to you and mother-meg." "i'm sure you will, child." "and i'll not fret about dickie anymore. i felt so sorry, so--angry--but i've asked jesus to forgive me. good night, grannie dear." so mrs. seymour, though she only kissed the little girl in silence, had her bit of comfort too that evening. "grannie," she thought; "i believe the child will be a true grandchild to me in time, and cheer up my old age when i can't so well help myself." early the next morning cherry was up betimes. she dressed herself as neatly as her poor little mended clothes would allow, and, without being asked, proceeded to light mrs. seymour's fire before she went out. she had often watched the thrifty woman take two or three pieces of coal, which she placed along the back of her stove, so as to form an arch for her sticks from the front bar. then she would lay eight or ten sticks evenly from back to front across this, and eight or ten more from side to side, putting her paper lightly under the arch, and her cinders lightly over it. "there, my dear," the old woman would say, "if you lay it like that, and your sticks are dry, you never need fear that if you turn your back your fire will be out. those cinders will burn up hot before you have washed your hands." all this cherry remembered, and followed as implicitly as she could. when she had done she stood spell-bound, watching the effect. mrs. seymour, roused by the crackling of the sticks, opened her eyes, and startled her by calling out-- "halloa! my dear, are you up already, and the fire lighted too?" "yes," said cherry, coming forward; "i thought as you'd be glad to have it done, grannie." "so i should, child. but look here, i've found a small apron of mine as 'ull do nicely for you to go to the doctor's with. mind, cherry, you never take it dirty, my dear. there it is on that chair." cherry found a clean, neatly-folded apron ready for her, and to her thinking it added to her appearance just the one thing she wanted. she thanked mrs. seymour very gratefully, and ran down-stairs. many had been meg's instructions the evening before as to how she was to clean the steps of the doctor's house, and jem's hearth had been cleaned three times over, in order that cherry should know properly how to do it. as she hurried along the two or three streets which intervened between their house and the doctor's, she thought over all meg had said, and hoped she should do it right. it was a very nervous little girl who rang at the area bell, as the church clock near struck seven. "who are you?" asked the cook. "ah, i know. well, my dear, here's the pail and things; do it from outside, and i'll open the front door for you to begin on the top step. here's the mat to kneel on. don't you leave it out there, nor the broom, or they'll be walked off with." cherry promised, and waited while the cook went up-stairs to unfasten the door. "please," said cherry, looking up with her candid eyes, "i'm not very used to making stones white, but mother-meg says i shall do it much better in a day or two." "all right; and if you don't quite know anythink, you just come to me, and i'll tell you." cherry began sweeping, and the cook went back to prepare her master's breakfast. "poor little thing," she said compassionately, when the housemaid came down to put away her brushes, "she don't look strong. i wonder master chose such a child." "how old is she, then?" "she looks fifteen, but she's that small and thin. she limps, and one of her shoulders is all crooked, but i never see a prettier face in my life. her eyes is soft and large, and altogether----" but jane could not stay to hear, for the busy doctor must have everything punctual, so cook finished her sentence to herself. when cherry came back with the pail and broom, cook went to inspect her work in a very kindly spirit. "it don't look quite _clear_, my dear, but as your mother says, you'll improve if you take pains. you've done it very well considering. hasn't she, jane? come and see." this was to give jane, who was passing through the hall at the moment, an opportunity of agreeing with cook's verdict on cherry's eyes. "i haven't a mother, please," answered cherry, timidly. "oh, i thought you said mother, my dear; i beg your pardon." cherry turned homewards, and the two comfortable servants went down-stairs again. "it 'ud be a charity to alter one of my dresses for her, that it would," said jane; "no wonder, if she ain't got no mother. but how her poor things was patched and mended; and how white her apron was. they're clean people who belong to her, if they are poor." and so it came to pass, when cherry had done her steps the next morning, the cook asked her to step into the kitchen with a very pleased look. cherry entered wondering, and then jane ran down-stairs in a great bustle, and said she couldn't stay, but did nevertheless, while they produced her print dress, which cook explained had shrunk in the wash, and which they had together altered to cherry's size. "there!" said jane, "we were up till i don't know what time doing it, and i believe it 'ull fit splendid." cherry, for thanks, burst into tears, at which both the kind-hearted girls looked very concerned. but when she could look up again, she said gently-- "please, you mustn't think as those belongin' to me wouldn't give me clothes; but there's been illness and death in the house, and they took me and my little brother when we was in the greatest want. they're _ever_ so kind to us, only mother-meg has not been strong enough to see about anything yet." the pathetic eyes of the child, begging for indulgence, lest her best friends should be blamed for her poverty, quite struck the two well-to-do young women, and the cook answered quickly-- "i quite believe it, my dear; don't have any fear of us. take your dress home, and tell--who is it, dear?" "mother-meg----" "tell her that you've been a very good girl, and have done your steps very nicely to-day. i'll come and see her one of these days." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xviii. meg's savings. during the week which elapsed before jem's work took him into the country, meg and cherry were busy from morning till night. dickie must have a new frock, and, indeed, so must cherry, though the doctor's servants had been so kind as to provide her with a print one. "cherry," said meg one morning, "you know we'd take you with us if we could; but you see, dear, my mother hasn't but one room to spare, and i'm afraid, besides, we should be too large a party for her. but i shan't forget; and you must go another time." cherry looked up brightly. "oh, yes, mother-meg; of course i _should_ like to see the green fields, but i couldn't leave the doctor's anyhow; so if you could take me ever so, i couldn't go." "no," said meg; "but i should not wish you to think i'd forgot you, dear." just then mrs. blunt tapped at the door, and came in with her pleasant face. "here i am, mrs. seymour; did ye expect me afore?" "i was so busy that i hardly knew the time," answered meg; "but i hope it isn't inconvenient to you to come?" "not a bit of it! why, i'm pleased, i'm sure, as you want me. it's nice to be wanted, ye know, sometimes." "i expect you're often wanted," smiled meg. she shook her head, smiling too. "more of late than i used to be," she said. "but now what is it you want me to do?" "well," said meg, "i want you to stay with dickie while cherry and i go to buy something, for he's too heavy for either of us to carry, and he has not got courage to walk yet. the noise in the street frightens him now he can't see it all." "poor little dear," said mrs. blunt, kissing him. "we shan't be gone long," explained meg; "and you can't think how glad i am mother advised me to save what i earned with her. here's quite a little store--enough to buy some things for my two children, and to pay for making them." "i should like to 'elp you for nothing," said mrs. blunt, understanding what meg meant by those last words; for she had sent jem down to explain to her, that she wanted to find some one to make cherry's dress, and that she would ten times rather she should do it than put it out. "but that would not be right," answered meg; "and, like me, now you've begun to have a little saving-bag, the money can go into that." mrs. blunt laughed. "i always feel rich when i look into that bag, even if there's ever so little in it." meanwhile meg was putting on her bonnet, and now stooped to kiss dickie, who was sitting in his own little chair. "is this the chair as i've heard on?" asked mrs. blunt. "what a rare nice one! why, it takes in half, i do declare, and makes into a little table too, like they do in the shops." dickie looked very pleased, and mrs. blunt's own babies toddled round to look and admire. they regarded the little blind boy with awe, having been drilled by their mother as to how they were to behave to him. but his gentle little face won them at once, and when they found that he looked very much like themselves, and wore frocks and pinafores, they ceased to be afraid, and began to prattle about the little bits of toys they had brought up with them. meg glanced at the three crowded round the little table, and left them with a happy heart. mrs. blunt busied herself with some work meg had left for her, and it did not seem long before she came back, accompanied by cherry carrying a long-shaped parcel. "look!" she exclaimed, spreading it out on the table, "just look what mother-meg has bought for me! here's some dark blue serge for my best frock, and stuff for two aprons, and a new hat. i never saw such a lot o' things in my life." then meg unrolled her parcel, and there was a ready-made jacket for dickie, and stuff like cherry's for a neat little frock, and a hat, which meg put down on his table in front of him, guiding his soft hands to feel its shape and newness. "for me?" asked dickie. "what a nice lickle hat!" "see if it fits you," said meg, placing it on his head. cherry was delighted; and then meg turned to the table to begin cutting out, so that no time might be wasted. "does he never run about?" whispered mrs. blunt, glancing towards dickie. "not yet," answered meg, in the same tone. but the children's society was very attractive, and before long they noticed that dickie stood up of his own accord, and even went so far as to feel his way round to the other side of his table. "he will get on by-and-by," said mrs. blunt. "it's all new to him, poor little chap." cherry sat by, watching the children, and working at the seams of her skirt; and if ever her heart felt thankful it was this morning, as she saw dickie, sheltered from all danger, playing so peacefully there. her own new dress was only a part of her happiness, and when she thought of all the love which had been showered upon her, she felt as if she could sing for joy. "mother-meg," she said softly, when she was next standing by her to have something fitted, "i don't know how to tell you how grateful i am to you and father-jem." meg smiled kindly. "tell jesus," she answered, stroking her wavy hair, "for when we tell him, it does not make us less glad, but more." so cherry went back to her work, and meg and mrs. blunt were left to theirs. "do you think as we shall get this done to-night?" asked mrs. blunt. "i hope we shall--i think we may. you see, to-morrow is sunday, and i did want for us all to go to the mission room together. i don't know that cherry _could_ go in that old thing, though i am not sure, now i say so, that shabby clothes ought to keep us away." "no," answered mrs. blunt; "but one don't like to be looked down on." "i suppose we ought to think about pleasing god more than about pleasing our neighbours." "that's very true, i'm sure." "and if we wear what _he_ has given us, we ought to be satisfied that it is right." "only some of us didn't always make the best of what he did give us," remarked mrs. blunt, with a little smile. "we learn, don't we," asked meg, "when he teaches us? mrs. blunt, i wish you'd get your husband to go with us to-morrow." "what, in his working-clothes? he ain't got no others, my dear." "jem goes in his," said meg. "yes; but a carpenter's different from a mason." "it's cleaner work, of course; but i don't believe that our father in heaven minds a bit about clothes. he clothes us with the 'best robe,' and he looks at us in that." "what do you mean by 'the best robe,' mrs. seymour?" asked the woman, still plying her needle as fast as she could. she had found in talking to meg, that there was often a hidden meaning under some quaint little sentence. "don't you remember in the parable of the prodigal son, how the father says, 'bring forth the best robe and put it on him?' it seems to me that that is how god looks at us. he covers over all our rags and tatters with the robe of his son's righteousness, and he looks at that instead of at our poor doings." "i see," said mrs. blunt; "and i'll ask blunt to think of what you say. i'm sure i miss goin' out of a sunday dreadful; but i haven't been, i do believe, since the first year i was married." meg did not exclaim, but she answered gently, "we must ask god to help you both to go; i'm sure you would feel different." "i _do_ feel different already; and blunt says as i've grown young again. think of that! it's all along of you, mrs. seymour, and what you've helped me to learn of our saviour. but i want blunt and the children to take the comfort of it too." "of course you do," answered meg, sympathetically, "and you'll have it too, if you ask for it." "shall i?" asked mrs. blunt. "it says, 'ask, and ye shall _receive_,'" answered meg. a little before twelve o'clock mrs. blunt went down to prepare her husband's and children's dinner, and meg rose to get ready for her jem. "let me do it," said cherry, "and then you can go on with the work; i've come to the end of all i can do now." meg willingly let her try, and so the dress progressed rapidly, and when mrs. blunt and her babies reappeared after dinner, she was surprised to see how much had been accomplished. about eight o'clock that night the last stitch was put in it, and the last button sewn on; and then cherry went into the other room, and came back in it smiling and blushing, and looking so pretty that mrs. blunt, who was preparing to go, was obliged to stoop and kiss her. "thank you, mrs. blunt," said cherry earnestly. "i know you've put out your own work for me, and i think it's very kind of you." "you're welcome, my dear; and i've had one of the happiest days i ever spent--that i have." when she was gone cherry suddenly turned to meg. "oh, how selfish i've been! i never thought about dickie's frock; shall you be able to take him to-morrow in his old one?" "yes," answered meg, "it was impossible to do both; and his jacket will cover up the dear little old frock." "i wish i'd thought of it," said cherry, sorrowfully. but meg assured her, that even if she had it would have made no difference. "so be happy, dear," she said, "and enjoy the nice new frock which god has given you." cherry kissed her and wished her good night, and then went up-stairs to see if mrs. seymour should want her to do anything before she went to bed. "my!" exclaimed miss hobson, when she stood in the doorway, with her golden hair falling over her shoulders. "my! you do look nice so, cherry." cherry laughed. "mother-meg wishes me to wear my hair like this," answered cherry, "and mother used to like it when she were alive. only i couldn't, ye know, when i'd got no soap, nor brush, nor nothing." "ain't that a nice dress!" said miss hobson, admiringly. "i shouldn't 'a known ye, cherry. but why didn't young mrs. seymour get ye a black one for yer poor father?" cherry looked a little troubled, and mrs. seymour quickly interposed. "she would ha' done, but i advised her not; it's better as it is. cherry is as sorry for her poor father in this one as ever she would be in a black; and 'tain't as if meg could get her another best one in a hurry." "no," said miss hobson; "only some folks thinks a deal o' black." "very foolishly," answered mrs. seymour decidedly; "but that's not my jem's meg. she never even got a bit of new black for the little darling that's gone. she had one as she'd had at the hall, and she says to me, 'mother, you'll not think as i don't care because i don't spend jem's money getting black things.'" "well, you needn't be hot over it," said miss hobson; "i didn't know the reason, of course." cherry came to her bedside, and spoke gently, though there were tears in her large sweet eyes. "miss hobson, _don't_ tell any one as i haven't a black frock--no one but you knows; and it don't make a bit of difference so long as i think as _god_ sent it." miss hobson stroked the little hand which lay on her sheet, and called out to mrs. seymour, who had turned away, "mrs. seymour, i'm sorry as i was cross; and i wouldn't ha' said a word if i'd remembered in time." then she drew cherry towards her, and asked her to give her a kiss. "you've been a kind little girl to me all this month past, that you have, my dear; and you can go to that drawer there--the bottom one. in the left-hand corner you'll find a work-box. will you bring it to me?" cherry did as desired, and when it was placed on the bed, miss hobson raised herself on her elbow. "yes," she said, "that's it. that was give to me when i was a young woman, all fitted up as nice as anything, with scissors, and thimble, and cottons and all. it was give to me by my young man as was drowned at sea, and i've kept it hoarded up this thirty years. but now i'm going to give it to you, cherry. why should it lie there when there's one of my lord's little ones as 'ud be glad of it for their work?" "do you really mean for _me_, miss hobson?" asked cherry, looking at the beautiful box as if she could not believe what she had heard. "yes; it will not make him as is gone seem more far off, for your havin' it. he was always generous, and he'd have liked you to have it, as these poor old rheumatic fingers of mine can't use it no longer." she wept a little, while cherry stood by, hardly liking to take her at her word. "you see, cherry," miss hobson went on, cheering up as she spoke, "i've been too apt to think of myself all my life, so the lord has made it so as i've only myself left to think about. and then he begins to teach me to think about him. and every day, as i think about _him_, i care less about myself, and more about him. and so it comes to pass as he brings me you to think of too. and by-and-by he'll let me do something for you, perhaps, more'n giving you my dear work-box." "i can't begin to thank you," said cherry, "but it _is_ kind of you. i never saw such a nice one in my life. are you sure as you won't be sorry as you've give it to me, miss hobson?" "no--no, my dear; not so long as you take care on it." she passed her crooked suffering fingers over it tenderly; then, as if she could not help it, she raised herself and pressed a kiss upon the lid. then she bade cherry take it away and keep it as her own. when cherry showed her treasure to mrs. seymour she said-- "that's cost miss hobson a deal to give up, i can tell you. but when she thinks as her lord would be pleased, she don't stick at it. it's for _his sake_, child!" [illustration] [illustration] chapter xix. listening. "cherry, go down and ask mrs. blunt if any of them are going with us," said meg, as they rose from breakfast the next morning. "tell her we shall start at a quarter to eleven." cherry made her way to the ground floor, and knocked at mrs. blunt's door. it was quickly opened by the eldest girl, with the baby in her arms. she did not ask cherry to enter, but went back to her mother, who was busy in the other room. mrs. blunt herself came forward, and spoke in a low tone. "ask 'em to be kind enough to knock as they come down, and if we're ready, we'll come." cherry nodded. "how's little brother?" "all right," answered cherry, smiling; "he's so pleased as father-jem is going to carry him; and he says as he'll sit as still as anythink." "so do my pattie. i've promised as i'll take her, if blunt will go." she lowered her voice and half came outside. "i think he will--but men is men, my dear." cherry understood, and went up-stairs again with her report. how proudly, when the time came, did she dress dickie in his new hat and jacket, and sit with him on her knee telling him stories till the time that meg should be ready. presently she came out of her room, and cherry fancied that her eyes looked rather tearful. "well, my girl," said jem, starting up from his chair, "we're none too soon. it is nice to have you to go along with me once more." "i'm very thankful," she answered gently, turning towards the door. jem took dickie up in his strong arms, while cherry followed meg to the stairs. she linked her arm confidingly in hers, and her golden hair fell over meg's shoulder as she whispered, "i know as we don't make up for the little baby, even though we do love you very much indeed, mother-meg; i wish as i could do anything for you." "you do a great deal for me, cherry," said meg affectionately, "and i'm very thankful that we've got you both. doesn't dickie look happy?" he did indeed, his arms clasped round jem's neck, his little face leaning on the broad shoulder. jem went out at the front door, while meg tapped at mrs. blunt's. "we're ready," announced the woman, "and it's mighty kind of you to wait for us." she came out of her room, followed by her husband, who had brushed himself up as well as he was able. three or four of the children pressed out also, and meg, seeing this, offered a hand to two of them, which gratified them very much. jem waited till blunt came up, and they paced along together, while mrs. blunt joined cherry, and so they came to the mission room where jem and meg generally attended. jem went in first with his little frail burden, and when he had found seats for his friends, he followed meg to where they usually sat. when the hymn began, dickie raised his head from jem's breast with a light in his face. meg was afraid he would speak, but jem warned him by a low word, and after another moment meg saw tear after tear come from his little sightless eyes. the first he had shed since he had been their child, she thought; and she took his little hand in hers and kissed it. but that hymn went to another heart besides dickie's. mrs. blunt's husband sat as one in a dream. where had he heard those words before?-- "there is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from immanuel's veins; and sinners plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains." he closed his eyes, and he saw a certain bare room with a lot of little children sitting round; a teacher sat close to them, who was leading them in a clear voice, while the little ones followed and joined in as they could. "and sinners plunged beneath that flood!" the hymn rose and fell to the end; and then there was a prayer, while his mind did not follow the speaker's words, but went back to that old country sunday school, in which he had sat week after week, month after month, and even year after year. "lose all their guilty stains." what had the years since then brought him but guilty stains? he heard not a word of the prayer; but the first sentence that arrested his attention was, "may i not wash in _them_, and be clean?" and then he listened with an eagerness which surprised himself. he heard about the proud man turning away in a rage; he heard about his servants trying to persuade him--and mentally said that this was like his own wife; he heard how the man obeyed the prophet's words, and dipped seven times in the stream; he heard how he was cured from his loathsome disease; he heard how he went home rejoicing. and all through the preacher's words these lines kept running as a strain of sweet music-- "there is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from immanuel's veins; and sinners plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains." slow tears forced themselves from under his eyelids, which he hastily brushed away with his hand. what passed in the man's mind during that hour was known to none but god; perhaps he was hardly conscious himself at the time what a great transaction had taken place; but from that day forth, first very slowly and fitfully, but afterwards growing stronger and firmer, came the knowledge that he had plunged in that crimson tide, and had been washed and was clean. as they walked home very little was said; there had been many praying during that little service for the man who had hardly moved a finger, but had sat with bowed head during the whole time, and they believed that their prayers had been heard. when they parted at the door of their home, blunt looked up and wrung jem's hand. "thankye kindly," he said. "if ye don't mind, i should like to come next sunday." mrs. blunt, like a wise woman, did not stop to speak, but followed her husband into their room, where their little daughter kittie stood, clean and smiling, ready to meet them, with their frugal meal set out on the table. [illustration: all day long the two sat out under the apple-trees basking in the sunshine.--p. .] that was a happy sunday. how dickie was praised for sitting so still, and what a soft little colour mantled in his face when he heard that they were pleased with him! that evening meg left cherry to take care of dickie, and went to the service with her husband. when they came home, the sound of singing on the staircase made them pause. it came from the top of the house, and jem and meg went up to see who it could be. their mother's door was ajar, and through it they could see cherry sitting by the fire, singing in a clear, bell-like voice, dickie resting on her lap. miss hobson's door was open, and she lay propped up on her pillow listening with a peaceful look on her face. "whiter than the snow!" sang cherry. "whiter than the snow-- wash me in the blood of the lamb, and i shall be whiter than snow." "sing it again, cherry," said dickie, "'cause i do like it so. did we sing that this mornin', cherry?" "not this one," answered cherry. "i 'fought we did--sing it again, cherry. do you fink he'll wash _me_ whiter than snow?" "of course he will, dickie, if you come to him." "what do it mean, cherry, 'whiter than snow'?" "i think it means being washed in the blood of jesus." "but how, whiter than the snow?" "don't you remember, dickie, when there was snow, afore mother-meg took us away from old sairy,--don't you remember how there weren't a spot on it when we got up one morning?" "yes--i 'member," said dickie. "shall we be like that?" "i 'spose so. them as is washed, he can't see no spot on us, more than we can on the snow." "mother-meg says as there ain't no sin in _heaven_," murmured dickie. "let's go to sleep now, cherry." so meg and jem came in at that, and jem carried him down-stairs at once to his own little bed, too sleepy to say more than a very soft "it is nice!" as he laid his head on his pillow. after that cherry prepared the supper which she was allowed to stay up for, as it was sunday night--a great treat, but meg liked nice things to happen on sundays. "that child sings like the angels," said miss hobson, when mrs. seymour came in from her service. "she's been up here this hour, and i feel as if i'd been nigh the gate of heaven." "how's she learnt them?" asked mrs. seymour. "before her mother died. she's got a book full of 'em. she says when she was alone up in that attic she used to sing 'em to dickie pretty near all day; and what's more, i've heard it often through the window, but o' course i didn't know as it was her." "we didn't guess as we should ever come to know and love any one livin' in _that_ house, did we, miss hobson? it shows us how some nice things can come out of bad things!" miss hobson shook her head assentingly, but her mind was running on something else. "who do ye think has been up here a listenin' to her too?" "i don't know, i'm sure," answered mrs. seymour, looking round quickly, for she disliked visitors in her little home, more especially on sundays. miss hobson knew this, but she went on calmly: "we was sittin' here, as you left us, me in my bed, and cherry by your fire, when there comes a little rap at the door, and kittie blunt comes in. "'oh, kittie,' says cherry, half-startled, 'do you want mrs. seymour?' "'no, i don't, i want you--may i come in and speak to yer?' "'i suppose so,' says cherry, as if she didn't rightly know. i think she'd forgotten as i was close by, and she could ha' asked me." "well?" questioned mrs. seymour, as miss hobson paused. "well--kittie she comes in and stands just where i couldn't see her, but i could see cherry and dickie as i lay, and she says in a low voice, 'cherry, was you at the mission room this mornin'?--but there, i know as you was--well, cherry, mother said as i should have a turn to go to-night, and she'd put the little 'uns to bed. so i puts on my things and goes; leastways, i set out to go, but when i got a little way--cherry! i met one o' my schoolfellers, and she said as it was nonsense what was talked there, and i should be a silly girl if i went. so i turned t'other way with her, and we went a walk instead. and after a bit i felt so wretched, and all at once i said good night all in a hurry, and ran home. but when i got to the door i couldn't make up my mind to go in and tell mother how bad i'd been, and she so kind in smartenin' me up and all, and i came up to ask you if you could ever have done such a thing?' "cherry, she looked up from hugging of dickie, and she says as gentle as anythink, 'i expect i could have, kittie, only you see i don't want to do nothing bad just now, 'cause i'm so happy.' "'yes,' says kittie, 'but if you wasn't happy, cherry?' "cherry nodded, and she says, 'that's what i mean. when i used to be so miserable, and we was so hungry--dickie and me--i used to tell dreadful stories to quiet him sometimes.' "'oh!' says kittie. "'i didn't _mean_ to be so wicked,' says cherry, 'and i didn't think much about it then; the words used just to slip out, anything as come first; but since i've come back here to this nice home, i'm awful sorry as i could ha' said such things, 'cause, ye know, i did love the lord jesus, even then!--and think o' telling lies and lovin' _him_ at the same time!' "cherry's eyes was droppin' tears all this time and then kittie comes runnin' to her side, and throws her arms round her neck and begins to cry, and says, 'i thought as i loved him, too, but i'm sure i don't, or i couldn't ha' turned my back on him as i done to-night! you should 'a heard what pollie says, against him!' "'but you runned away from her,' says cherry, 'and you're sorry now, and want him to forgive you, don't ye, kittie?' "'i don't know,' says kittie sorrowfully; 'i don't see as how he can, for i can't go down and tell mother about it.' "'why not?' says cherry. "''cause i _can't_; it ain't no use, cherry.' "'shall we ask jesus to help you do it?' says cherry, huggin' of her. "they was quiet after that, and at last kittie, she says, 'ask him then,' and cherry she bends over her head and whispers somethin'. then, dickie, who'd been listenin' all the time, says to her, ''ou mus' go down now, kittie, 'cause jesus 'ull help 'ou, now.' "so kittie got up without another word and left the room, but when she got to the door she ran back and kissed them both over and over again. 'i do love him,' she says, 'and i _will_ try to do as he likes!' and then she runs down in good earnest. after that cherry begins to sing that one about the snow--'wash me in the blood of the lamb, and i shall be whiter than snow.' that was just before you come in, mrs. seymour, and i was, as i says, sittin' nigh the gate of heaven: for it seems to me, when we come to think o' his forgivin' love, as we mount up, and up, and up, till we are a'most lost in wonder!" mrs. seymour did not answer beyond a gentle "yes--yes--yes," as she busied herself in preparing her invalid's supper; but the story sank down into her heart, and many a time little kittie got a kind smile or a word of encouragement, where before she would have passed her with a nod. and thus she gave "a cup of cold water" to another of his little disciples. a day or two after this jem and meg bade cherry good-bye, and left her under mrs. seymour's wing, proud to be of some use in the world. for mrs. seymour's last words as she placed her hand upon the girl's shoulder were-- "she's my grandchild, you know, meg, and i couldn't spare her now for anything." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xx. earth's song and heaven's echo. while cherry was busy all day long, from early morning, when she cleaned the doctor's step, till evening, when she read poor suffering miss hobson to sleep, little kittie blunt was learning her life-lessons too. "kittie," said mrs. blunt one day, as she and the little girl stood over their washing-tub, "i shouldn't like you to grow up like pollie, and them girls, as is never satisfied unless they're at their doors gossipin'." "well, i don't, mother," answered kittie, a little sulkily. "no, you don't; but if you go so much with pollie it won't be long afore you do." "i don't go with pollie now," said kittie. "i should ha' thought as you'd seen that i didn't, mother, since--that sunday." "i'm glad on it," said mrs. blunt heartily. "that's good news, kittie. you'll grow up to be a comfort to me yet." kittie wrung out a towel very hard, but she half shook her head. "yes, you will, kit. it may be a deal easier to you now to go out on the step, and see folks passin', and have a grumble with pollie; but by-and-by, if you're steady, you'll find it a deal easier to sit down with mother to a bit o' work, and have a chat or a bit o' readin'." "'tain't that i care so much for _pollie_," answered the girl rather dolefully; "but you don't know how dull it seems in 'ere, instead of outside, mother; leastways when you're used to goin' out." mrs. blunt did not answer, for kittie's words gave her a pang. if her child only would believe that she knew best! but mrs. blunt had some one to consult now in all her difficulties. she raised her heart to him with an earnest prayer, that kittie might be kept from the first steps of danger. so it was with a quieted trust that she bent over her tub once more; she knew but little, but that little was so real, that it made her life a perfectly different thing. was she puzzled how to guide her boys?--she asked jesus about it. was she worried with kittie?--she asked jesus to make it right. was she cast down at their small means and many wants?--she told jesus about it. was she afraid that the food would run short?--she told jesus about it. and she found, as thousands have found before, that he could supply _all_ her need. did she watch and see that the boys were quieter than she expected, after that telling jesus? did she notice that kittie cheered up and was good? that some one sent a frock for the baby unexpectedly? that her husband brought home an extra shilling for an extra bit of work he had done? ah! they that ask, expecting an answer, from the faithful god, shall receive abundantly. her thoughts were broken in upon by kittie's drawing a pinafore out of the water, and saying-- "my! ain't this dreadfully old, mother? it ain't worth gettin'-up, that it ain't." mrs. blunt shook her head. "it 'ull have to serve another turn, kit." "i was a-thinkin'--" said kit, hesitating. "well, kittie, what was you a-thinkin'?" answered her mother, kindly. "why, there's cherry seymour, she earns two shillings a week." "so she does, but she ain't you, and she's left school." "but she don't earn that in school-time, mother." "of course she don't." "but i've been thinkin', that if she was to mention me to them servants at the doctor's, who is so kind to her, they might know of some little place or 'nother before breakfast for _me_." "so they might, kit; you're a good girl to ha' thought of it." "i _am_ honest," kittie went on, meditatively, washing away all the time as she talked, "and you could say as i'm not given to pickin' things, or takin' what ain't mine, now couldn't you, mother?" mrs. blunt laughed a little, at which kittie blushed crimson. "mother!" she exclaimed. "oh, kit, my dear, i never meant as i couldn't! bless your heart, i should hope so! but i was laughin' at you havin' thought it all over so grand!" "well--but--mother--we would be glad of two shillings more every week, wouldn't we?" "of course we should, kittie." mrs. blunt raised herself, and wrung the soap-suds from her arms. "why, yes, kit, if you _could_, my dear, we shouldn't know ourselves!" kittie looked very pleased; and directly her mother had done with her, she ran up-stairs to ask cherry to put her into communication with the doctor's servants. she knocked at meg's door, but could get no answer, and remembering that they were away, she went up to the top to mrs. seymour's rooms. here on the landing, swaying about in the air that came in freely from the window, were sheets and clothes drying finely; she bobbed her head under them, and as she did so she heard cherry's clear voice saying-- "i've a'most done, miss hobson; will it do then?" kittie gained admittance, and found cherry starching some things on the centre table. "my! you do know how to do it fine!" she exclaimed; and then she explained her errand. cherry took her compliments very calmly, ironing and starching were such every-day things to her; but when she heard what kittie wanted she looked very serious. "i can ask 'em and welcome, but i don't know as they would. but they are mighty kind." as she spoke she went into the back room to give miss hobson a book which she had dropped on the floor, and the invalid called to kittie to come too. "look 'ere," she said to her, "_i've_ got a friend as i'll name ye to, if ye like to go and see her. she's the curate's wife, what comes to see me sometimes, and i know as she've got a heap of children and not much to do with. would ye like to go?" kittie said she should, and the day being saturday, and a half-holiday, she ran down to ask her mother's permission to go at once. mrs. blunt said it could do no harm to try, and made kittie as neat as her very spare wardrobe would allow, and saw her set forth on her errand with a strange feeling that she was going out into the world. kittie traversed the two or three streets that brought her to the one where the good man, who spent his life among the poor, had his home. she rang timidly, and stood for some minutes much concerned that the door was not opened, though she heard feet running up and down, and children's voices many and shrill. at last another step came nearer and nearer, and the door was opened by a lady, pale and careworn, the curate's wife herself, who led the way without asking any questions into the front room, where a baby was crawling on the hearth-rug, and two or three little ones were standing about watching kittie with curiosity. the curate's wife took up the baby, and bade kittie be seated. she supposed she had come on account of some sick relative, and patiently waited to hear the story. but when kittie had explained why she came the lady looked surprised and pleased. "and you think you could help me at odd times?" she asked at last, "and would not get tired of the children? because, you know, i could not have them slapped even if they were tiresome." kittie promised that this should never happen, privately remembering that it was a thing her mother never allowed, though she recalled with compunction, that now and then--but still she felt different now from what she used to do, and she must ask for help from the lord jesus. all that passed through her mind as she made the promise, but the curate's wife could not tell that. she only thought that this little girl seemed very straightforward. "so you would be able to come before breakfast, and light the kitchen fire?" she asked. "oh, yes, ma'am." "but does not your mother want you, as you have such a large family at home?" "no, ma'am, 'cause mother's obliged to stay at home with the little 'uns, and she says as we didn't ought both of us to be at home." "but i am afraid i shall not be able to pay you as much as i should like, kittie; i have very little to spend; and yet--" she sighed. "i _am_ so tired, and it would be such a comfort to have you if you were a good girl." "i'd try to be, ma'am," answered kittie; "but--mother says i'm very tiresome sometimes." the curate's wife smiled kindly. "we all are," she said gently; "but if we know it, and try to be better, so as to please our lord and master, we are sure to improve." kittie's eyes gave a flash; nobody talked to her quite like that. she should like to serve this pretty lady very much. "then you will come in the evenings too, and wash up our dishes for us, and help me put the children to bed, or anything i may want?" kitty promised, and went home, about the happiest little girl in london. of course her difficulties were yet to come. two whole shillings a week! it seemed a fortune to her. cherry and miss hobson were as pleased as she could wish, and then she ran down and burst in with her news to her mother. "oh, kittie!" exclaimed mrs. blunt, "won't you just have to be good to them dear little children! and to the lady too. i never did see such a wonderful thing, never. but it's like my lord, that it is!" * * * * * when, after a fortnight's work at the hall, jem went back to london, he left meg and dickie to get two more weeks of fresh air and country milk. perhaps to dickie that month in the country seemed to him afterwards as but one brief day filled with the birds' song. all day long the two sat out under the apple-trees basking in the sunshine, and listening to the melodious sounds from the hall farm. dickie, in meg's old little wooden chair, was learning to catch the song of the different birds, and would listen intently and patiently while meg tried to teach him how to distinguish them. one day, seeing the lark soaring above their heads, she raised his hand, and pointed with his little finger as far as he could reach. "it is up in the sky, dickie, oh, so high! singing god's praise," she said. and dickie answered as he caught the sound-- "_god's_ hymn-book." "what did the child mean?" thought meg, as she gathered him into her arms and kissed him again and again. "was he thinking how cherry sang out of her hymn-book at home? and what could the lark sing out of, but god's hymn-book?" she did not know; but she looked with awe into the little face, which already, to her mind, seemed to reflect the light of heaven. "mother-meg," said dickie, all unconscious of her thoughts, "i should like to stay here always, 'cause the birds do sing so nice." "yes, dickie, so they do, but we couldn't stay here always, because of father-jem and cherry. they'll want us back again." "yes, we can't stay away from cherry, 'cause she takes care o' dickie when you're not there; and i love father-jem too." "we are going back to-morrow, dickie; but some day i hope you and cherry will both come and see my mother again." "she's very _kind_," nodded dickie. "i'll come some day." mrs. archer, who was sitting by, quite appreciated the compliment. she smiled a little tearfully, however. "this has been a happy, peaceful month, meg; i've enjoyed it as i never expected to enjoy anything on this earth again." so meg and dickie went back to smoky london; and when cherry saw her little brother, she was fain to burst into tears of joy, so altered and improved was he. and jem was equally pleased with meg, and said she looked like the country girl he had brought away a year ago. as dickie sat telling all his little news on cherry's lap, he whispered earnestly-- "cherry, i've heard 'em all day long. they sang halleluia, like you!" when cherry noticed that meg was sufficiently at liberty to attend to her, while still holding dickie tightly in her arms as if she could not part with him, she produced something mysteriously out of her pocket, and handed it to meg. it was a little shabby purse, and when at her entreaty meg opened it, it was found to contain ten whole shillings and a bright half-crown. "those are my first earnings, mother-meg," said cherry, smiling and colouring, "and they are for you." "not for me, dear; i shall put them away for you." "no," answered cherry stoutly; "i'm your child now--you know you said so, yourself--and so all i get is yours. don't give it back, mother-meg--don't--but let it go into the savings-bag." "shall i, jem?" asked meg, doubtfully. "yes," said jem, "the child's quite right; we're all one family now, for good or ill. may god bless us all." so meg unlocked her savings-bag, and cherry dropped her money into it with great satisfaction. "would you not like a _little_ for yourself, dear?" she asked. "not a farthing," answered cherry, "not till you have to get me some boots. but i wore these old things all the time, 'cause i told grannie as i wanted to have every bit of it ready for you. that half-crown's what i got from her, for helping her with the washing." "_i've_ got some savings too," said jem, smiling. "i've kept it a great secret, even from meg, because i wanted to surprise her. i was goin' to give it to her on our weddin' day, but as cherry's so clever, i won't be left behind. there, meg! this is what a pint a day would ha' cost me ever since last june; see, it's nigh on three pounds!" meg was too astonished to speak for a moment. "it's to go into the savings-bank," pursued jem, "and it's to buy a cottage with by-and-by; if it's god's will as we should." "oh, jem!" exclaimed meg, "i knew before we were married that you never took any of the drink, but i never guessed this." "it's the only secret as i've kept from you, and now it's out," he answered. "why, sweetheart, there's them as works with me, as drinks quarts instead of pints, and see what that mounts up to in a year, let alone the damage as they do to their health. they think it comforts 'em, but i'll tell ye one thing, they feel a deal worse afterwards." meg knew that from what she had heard, and cherry knew it by sorrowful experience. she bent her head and kissed dickie. oh, how thankful she was that they were taken away from all that! she told him for the hundredth time how glad she was to have him back. but even cherry's love, pleased as he was to be with her again, could not satisfy him. he soon slid down from her knee and began to feel his way round the room. "where are you going, darling?" asked cherry, watching his renewed powers with delight. "what do you want?" and dickie answered in a yearning little tone, brimful of love-- "only mo'ver-meg!" the end. john f shaw & co.'s publications. brenda's new story, the earl's granddaughter. _large crown vo, art cloth, gilt edges, six shillings_. the whitehall review. "rarely does the jaded reviewer find anything so fresh and spontaneous as brenda's new novel, 'the earl's granddaughter.' it is full of 'go' and merriment, and the quaint and ludicrous sayings of children. the scenes between lady patty and the bungalow children are fascinating in their life-like sincerity and grotesque comicality.... the style of the book is simple and direct, and in it there is not a dull page." the gentlewoman. "'the earl's granddaughter' relates the doings of quite the most delightful family that i have ever met with in books, in the children of colonel and mrs. gabb. they are original, fearless, clever, helpful, and intensely lovable. the account of their first visit to london, given by the gabb children to lady patty, is simply delightful." the saturday review. "a more delightful book for girls than this one we have seldom read. on little lady patty, the earl's granddaughter alone, is lavished enough of character-drawing to stock an average novel. she and her delightful little friends, the colonel's daughters, are living and breathing girls, and more good might be done by the tale of their doings than by many a volume of sermons.... the book, as we have said, is entirely delightful, full of health and humour. it is refreshing to be able to praise anything so unreservedly." the guardian. "the various characters and habits of the country townsfolk are almost worthy of 'cranford,' and the relations between the wild merry family of the gabbs, and the spoilt and educated, rather haughty and conceited young aristocrat, are thoroughly original and very droll." the leeds mercury. "brenda is excelled by few in her sketches of child-life, and in 'the earl's granddaughter' she has given us a story breezy, varied, and interesting enough to delight all who may be happy enough to possess it. the lives of the children at the bungalow, and of plain clever lady patty, cannot fail to charm." the record. "'the earl's granddaughter' is certainly among the best work of this popular writer. some of the character-sketches indeed are worthy of charles dickens himself.... it is a long time since we have read so bright, so fresh, and so clever a tale, with so valuable a purpose as 'the earl's granddaughter.'" john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. english life in the olden time. new editions of the well-known stories of emily s. holt. _in large crown vo, price three shillings & sixpence each_, in specially attractive binding. =the king's daughters; or, how two girls kept the faith=. =all's well; or, alice's victory=. _a tale of the times of queen mary_. =behind the veil=. _a tale of the norman conquest_. =white lady of hazelwood=. _a tale of the fourteenth century_. =verena; or, safe paths and slippery byeways=. _a story of to-day_. =earl hubert's daughter; or, the polishing of the pearl=. _a tale of the thirteenth century_. =ashcliffe hall=. _a tale of the last century_. =lettice eden=. _a tale of the last days of king henry the eighth_. =clare avery=. _a story of the spanish armada_. =the white rose of langley=. _a story of the olden time_. =isoult barry of wynscote=. _a tale of tudor times_. =joyce morrell's harvest=. _a story of the reign of elizabeth_. =sister rose; or, the eve of st. bartholomew=. =robin tremayne=. _a tale of the marian persecution_. =margery's son=. _a fifteenth century tale_. =imogen=. _a tale of the early british church_. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. tales of english life in the olden time. by emily s. holt. large cr. vo, five shillings each. =one snowy night; or, long ago at oxford=. 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"the characters are carefully studied and vividly presented, while sound research is skilfully utilized in suggesting the life and colour of the historical period selected by the writer."--_saturday review_. =in all time of our tribulation=. the story of piers gaveston. "a highly meritorious attempt to familiarize nineteenth century readers with the confusions of a long past century, little known and less understood."--_academy_. =the lord mayor. a tale of london in =. "full of stirring incident graphically told."--_the christian_. =lady sybil's choice. a tale of the crusades=. "the book charms from the naïve simplicity of the heroine and from the skill with which the authoress has preserved the spirit of the age."--_the graphic_. =wearyholme; or, seedtime and harvest=. "a skilful picture of the restoration period."--_graphic_. =a tangled web. a tale of the fifteenth century=. "a charming book.... we heartily commend it."--_sword and trowel_. =red and white. a tale of the wars of the roses=. "a charming historical tale, full of clever portraiture and antique colouring."--_publishers' circular_. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. tales of english life in the olden time. =by emily s. holt=. =all's well; or, alice's victory=. with illustrations. large crown vo. = / =. =the white lady of hazelwood=. large crown vo. = / =. "an entertaining book of the instructive type, which we always take a special pleasure in commending."--_the christian_. =behind the veil. a story of the norman conquest=. = / =. "interesting from first to last."--_british weekly_. =the king's daughters; or, how two girls kept the faith=. large crown vo. illustrated. = / =. "we never met with a book more suited to read aloud to young people on a sunday afternoon."--_record_. =ye olden time. english customs in the middle ages=. = / =. 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"one of the best girls' stories we have read."--_the congregationalist_. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. stories by l. t. meade. _author of "scamp and i," &c_. =great st. benedict's; or, dorothy's story=. new and cheaper edition. crown vo, cloth extra, with illustrations, = / =. "the description of dorothy's life is excellent."--_spectator_. "at once a noble book, and a most interesting story."--_court circular_. =a knight of to-day. a tale=. new and cheaper edition. with illustrations. crown vo, cloth extra, = / =. "a finely-imagined story of a good man. it is a book well worth reading." _the guardian_. =bel-marjory. a tale=. crown vo, cloth extra, = /-=. "most interesting; we give it our hearty commendation."--_english independent_. =scamp and i. a story of city byeways=. crown vo, cloth extra, with illustrations, = / =. 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"a charming story. it is characterised by simplicity of treatment, but the interest is cleverly sustained, and the characters are well drawn." _manchester examiner_. =lilian's hope=. large crown vo, cloth extra. with illustrations. "one of the best gift books for girls we have seen. the story throbs with the power and pathos of real home life."--_in his name_. =hilda; or, seeketh not her own=. crown vo, cloth extra. "a charming story, illustrative of the blessedness of self-sacrifice." _literary world_. =price two shillings and sixpence each=. =alick's hero=. large crown vo, cloth. illustrated. "mrs. shaw has added to our delight in noble boyhood, as well as to her own reputation, in this most charming of her works."--_the christian_. =only a cousin=. crown vo, cloth extra. "in our excavations among heaps of tales we have not come upon a brighter jewel than this."--rev. c. h. spurgeon in _sword and trowel_. =the gabled farm; or, young workers for the king=. crown vo, cloth extra. "a charming story, wherein the children are described naturally." _evangelical magazine_. =in the sunlight and out of it=. a year of my life-story. crown vo, cloth extra. "one of the pleasantest books that a girl could take into her hand, either for sunday or week-day reading."--_daily review_. =nellie arundel. a tale of home life=. crown vo, cloth extra, illustrated. "we need scarcely say that mrs. shaw holds out the light of life to all her readers, and we know of few better books than those which bear her name." _record_. =something for sunday=. _selected by catharine shaw_. =price one shilling each=. st. =outline texts for painting=. texts in packet. nd. =happy hours with the bible=. devices for bible searching. rd. =echoes from the bible=. illustrated papers for bible study. th. =alphabet texts for pricking or painting=. specially for the little ones. th. =messages from heaven=. small outline texts for painting. (suitable for flower missions.) th. =gleams of glory from the gospels=. subjects for bible study. th. =a large thought in a large word=. outline texts for painting. th. =scripture fear nots=. texts for painting. th. "=all things are yours.=" outline texts for painting, with hints for bible searching. th. =texts for the children=. for pricking or painting. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. popular home stories. by emily brodie. =old christie's cabin=. crown vo, = / =. illustrated. "a capital book for young people, depicting the loveliness of a ministering life on the part of some happy children."--_the christian_. _cousin dora; or, serving the king_. large crown vo, = / =. "an admirable tale for elder girls."--_nonconformist_. =his guardian angel=. large crown vo, = / =. "should find its way into school libraries as well as into homes." _sunday school chronicle_. =five minutes too late; or, leslie harcourt's resolve=. large crown vo, cloth extra, = / =. =norman and elsie; or, two little prisoners=. large crown vo, extra cloth, = / =. "so true and delightful a picture that we can hardly believe we have only read about it; it all seems so real, and has done us so much good."--_the christian_. =nora clinton; or, did i do right?= crown vo, = / =. "will be read with pleasure and profit."--_christian age_. =lonely jack and his friends at sunnyside=. crown vo, = / =. "its chapters will be eagerly devoured by the reader."--_christian world_. =the hamiltons; or, dora's choice=. crown vo, = / =. "miss brodie's stories have that savour of religious influence and teaching which makes them valuable as companions of the home."--_congregationalist_. =uncle fred's shilling: its travels and adventures=. crown vo, cloth extra, = / =. 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"a clever autobiography, cleverly illustrated."--_the christian_. =sybil's message=. small vo, cloth extra, = / =. =east and west; or, the strolling artist=. = / =. =the sea gull's nest; or, charlie's revenge=. = / =. =ruth's rescue; or, the light of ned's home=. = /-=. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. books for boys. by m. l. ridley. =price two shillings and sixpence each, with illustrations=. =sent to coventry; or, the boys of highbeech=. illustrated. large crown vo, cloth extra. "a really good story of boys' school-life."--_pall mall gazette_. "eminently interesting from start to finish,"--_pictorial world_. =king's scholars; or, work and play at easthaven=. illustrated. large crown vo, cloth extra. "full of all those stirring incidents which go to make up the approved life of schoolboys. both adventure and sentiment find a place in it."--_pall mall gazette_. "a schoolboy tale of very good tone and spirit."--_guardian_. =our captain. the heroes of barton school=. with illustrations. crown vo, cloth extra. "a first-class book for boys."--_daily review_. "a regular boy's book."--_christian world_. =our soldier hero. the story of my brothers=. large crown vo, cloth extra. with illustrations. "contains the healthiest of matter presented in the most entertaining of ways." _schoolmaster_. =the three chums. a story of school life=. with illustrations. crown vo, cloth extra. "a book after a boy's heart. how can we better commend it than by saying it is both manly and godly?"--rev. c. h. spurgeon in _sword and trowel_. "ingeniously worked out and spiritedly told."--_guardian_. =price three shillings and sixpence each, with illustrations=. =goldengates; or, rex mortimer's friend=. large crown vo. "an excellent story of boyish love."--_sunday school chronicle_. "a first-rate story for boys. the hero is a fine specimen of a manly young christian."--_congregational review_. =walter alison: his friends and foes=. crown vo, cloth extra. with illustrations. "schoolboys are sure to like it."--_churchman_. "a book boys will be sure to read if they get the chance."--_sword and trowel_. =hillside farm; or, marjorie's magic=. crown vo. illustrated. two shillings. "a very well-written story which all girls will thoroughly enjoy."--_guardian_. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. stories by grace stebbing. =a real hero. a story of the conquest of mexico=. with illustrations. crown vo, cloth extra, = / =. "we can cordially recommend this to all youthful lovers of adventure and enterprise."--_academy_. =in all our doings. a story for boys=. large crown vo, = / =. 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"with its dear little pictures, is quite charming."--_athenæum_. =silverdale rectory; or, the golden links=. with illustrations, crown vo, = / =. "we can heartily recommend this story." _church of england sunday school magazine_. =brave geordie. the story of an english boy=. with illustrations. crown vo, cloth, = / =. "it is refreshing to meet with such a spirited and thoroughly good story." _the christian_. =in wycliffe's days; or, a safe hiding place=. small vo. with illustrations. cloth extra, = / =. "a delightful invigorating story."--_daily review_. =lost her shoe and other threads=. small vo. illustrated. cloth extra, = / =. "five short stories sure to be devoured by young people."--_sword and trowel_. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. the pinafore picture books. price eighteenpence, in cloth gilt. =pinafore days=. by ismay thorn with illustrations by t. pym. =my sunday story book=. with illustrations. =only five=. by ismay thorn with illustrations by t. pym. =rough the terrier=. by emily brodie with illustrations by t. pym. =my sunday picture book=. with illustrations. =a six years darling=. by ismay thorn with illustrations by t. pym. =sunday bible pictures=. with illustrations. shilling picture books. coloured boards, crown to, with many illustrations. =jingles & chimes & nursery rhymes=. with original illustrations. =by sea and land=. stories of adventure, travel, and conflict. with many illustrations. =somebody's darling=. by catharine shaw. with illustrations. john f shaw & co.'s publications. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. splendid stories for boys. =by dr. gordon stables, r.n=. =facing fearful odds. a tale of flood and field=. large crown vo, with illustrations, = /-=. =hearts of oak. a story of nelson and the navy=. large crown vo, with illustrations, = /-=. "tom burn, the hero, will charm every boy that gets hold of it." _literary world_. "a story of the navy and of mighty nelson, told with excellent spirit." _saturday review_. =two sailor lads=. a story of stirring adventures on sea and land. l. cr, vo, with illustns., = /-=. "a sea story, big with wonders."--_saturday review_. "a capital story in dr. stables' best style."--_spectator_. =for england, home, and beauty=. a tale of battle and the breeze. large crown vo, cloth, with illustrations, price = /-=. "dr. stables has almost surpassed himself in this book. certainly we have read nothing of his which has pleased us more--perhaps we might say as much." _the spectator_. =exiles of fortune=. the story of a far north land. large cr. vo, cloth extra, with illustrations, = /-=. "a capital book; written with this popular writer's accustomed spirit, and sure to be enjoyed."--_scotsman_. =from squire to squatter=. a tale of the old land and the new. large crown vo, illustrated, price = /-=. "just the sort of book that boys delight in, as the story is crowded with exciting incidents."--_schoolmaster_. "the story is naturally and brightly written, and shows a marked advance over former productions by the same author."--_standard_. =in the dashing days of old; or, the world-wide adventures of willie grant=. large crown vo, illustrated, price = /-=. "we can commend this book as the best story for boys which we have read for many a day."--_english churchman_. "can be safely recommended as one of the very best books that could possibly be placed in a boy's hand."--_schoolmaster_. by w. c. metcalfe. =rogue's island; or, the pirate lair=. large crown vo, with illustrations, = /-=. by lady florence dixie. =the two castaways; or, adventures in patagonia=. large crown vo, cloth, with illustrations, price = /-=. "a lively story of adventure, drawn a good deal from personal experience." _the guardian_. london: john f. shaw & co., , paternoster row, e.c. the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter xv. tom as king. the next day the foreign ambassadors came, with their gorgeous trains; and tom, throned in awful state, received them. the splendours of the scene delighted his eye and fired his imagination at first, but the audience was long and dreary, and so were most of the addresses --wherefore, what began as a pleasure grew into weariness and home-sickness by-and-by. tom said the words which hertford put into his mouth from time to time, and tried hard to acquit himself satisfactorily, but he was too new to such things, and too ill at ease to accomplish more than a tolerable success. he looked sufficiently like a king, but he was ill able to feel like one. he was cordially glad when the ceremony was ended. the larger part of his day was 'wasted'--as he termed it, in his own mind--in labours pertaining to his royal office. even the two hours devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were rather a burden to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by restrictions and ceremonious observances. however, he had a private hour with his whipping-boy which he counted clear gain, since he got both entertainment and needful information out of it. the third day of tom canty's kingship came and went much as the others had done, but there was a lifting of his cloud in one way--he felt less uncomfortable than at first; he was getting a little used to his circumstances and surroundings; his chains still galled, but not all the time; he found that the presence and homage of the great afflicted and embarrassed him less and less sharply with every hour that drifted over his head. but for one single dread, he could have seen the fourth day approach without serious distress--the dining in public; it was to begin that day. there were greater matters in the programme--for on that day he would have to preside at a council which would take his views and commands concerning the policy to be pursued toward various foreign nations scattered far and near over the great globe; on that day, too, hertford would be formally chosen to the grand office of lord protector; other things of note were appointed for that fourth day, also; but to tom they were all insignificant compared with the ordeal of dining all by himself with a multitude of curious eyes fastened upon him and a multitude of mouths whispering comments upon his performance,--and upon his mistakes, if he should be so unlucky as to make any. still, nothing could stop that fourth day, and so it came. it found poor tom low-spirited and absent-minded, and this mood continued; he could not shake it off. the ordinary duties of the morning dragged upon his hands, and wearied him. once more he felt the sense of captivity heavy upon him. late in the forenoon he was in a large audience-chamber, conversing with the earl of hertford and dully awaiting the striking of the hour appointed for a visit of ceremony from a considerable number of great officials and courtiers. after a little while, tom, who had wandered to a window and become interested in the life and movement of the great highway beyond the palace gates--and not idly interested, but longing with all his heart to take part in person in its stir and freedom--saw the van of a hooting and shouting mob of disorderly men, women, and children of the lowest and poorest degree approaching from up the road. "i would i knew what 'tis about!" he exclaimed, with all a boy's curiosity in such happenings. "thou art the king!" solemnly responded the earl, with a reverence. "have i your grace's leave to act?" "o blithely, yes! o gladly, yes!" exclaimed tom excitedly, adding to himself with a lively sense of satisfaction, "in truth, being a king is not all dreariness--it hath its compensations and conveniences." the earl called a page, and sent him to the captain of the guard with the order-- "let the mob be halted, and inquiry made concerning the occasion of its movement. by the king's command!" a few seconds later a long rank of the royal guards, cased in flashing steel, filed out at the gates and formed across the highway in front of the multitude. a messenger returned, to report that the crowd were following a man, a woman, and a young girl to execution for crimes committed against the peace and dignity of the realm. death--and a violent death--for these poor unfortunates! the thought wrung tom's heart-strings. the spirit of compassion took control of him, to the exclusion of all other considerations; he never thought of the offended laws, or of the grief or loss which these three criminals had inflicted upon their victims; he could think of nothing but the scaffold and the grisly fate hanging over the heads of the condemned. his concern made him even forget, for the moment, that he was but the false shadow of a king, not the substance; and before he knew it he had blurted out the command-- "bring them here!" then he blushed scarlet, and a sort of apology sprung to his lips; but observing that his order had wrought no sort of surprise in the earl or the waiting page, he suppressed the words he was about to utter. the page, in the most matter-of-course way, made a profound obeisance and retired backwards out of the room to deliver the command. tom experienced a glow of pride and a renewed sense of the compensating advantages of the kingly office. he said to himself, "truly it is like what i was used to feel when i read the old priest's tales, and did imagine mine own self a prince, giving law and command to all, saying 'do this, do that,' whilst none durst offer let or hindrance to my will." now the doors swung open; one high-sounding title after another was announced, the personages owning them followed, and the place was quickly half-filled with noble folk and finery. but tom was hardly conscious of the presence of these people, so wrought up was he and so intensely absorbed in that other and more interesting matter. he seated himself absently in his chair of state, and turned his eyes upon the door with manifestations of impatient expectancy; seeing which, the company forbore to trouble him, and fell to chatting a mixture of public business and court gossip one with another. in a little while the measured tread of military men was heard approaching, and the culprits entered the presence in charge of an under-sheriff and escorted by a detail of the king's guard. the civil officer knelt before tom, then stood aside; the three doomed persons knelt, also, and remained so; the guard took position behind tom's chair. tom scanned the prisoners curiously. something about the dress or appearance of the man had stirred a vague memory in him. "methinks i have seen this man ere now . . . but the when or the where fail me"--such was tom's thought. just then the man glanced quickly up and quickly dropped his face again, not being able to endure the awful port of sovereignty; but the one full glimpse of the face which tom got was sufficient. he said to himself: "now is the matter clear; this is the stranger that plucked giles witt out of the thames, and saved his life, that windy, bitter, first day of the new year--a brave good deed--pity he hath been doing baser ones and got himself in this sad case . . . i have not forgot the day, neither the hour; by reason that an hour after, upon the stroke of eleven, i did get a hiding by the hand of gammer canty which was of so goodly and admired severity that all that went before or followed after it were but fondlings and caresses by comparison." tom now ordered that the woman and the girl be removed from the presence for a little time; then addressed himself to the under-sheriff, saying-- "good sir, what is this man's offence?" the officer knelt, and answered-- "so please your majesty, he hath taken the life of a subject by poison." tom's compassion for the prisoner, and admiration of him as the daring rescuer of a drowning boy, experienced a most damaging shock. "the thing was proven upon him?" he asked. "most clearly, sire." tom sighed, and said-- "take him away--he hath earned his death. 'tis a pity, for he was a brave heart--na--na, i mean he hath the look of it!" the prisoner clasped his hands together with sudden energy, and wrung them despairingly, at the same time appealing imploringly to the 'king' in broken and terrified phrases-- "o my lord the king, an' thou canst pity the lost, have pity upon me! i am innocent--neither hath that wherewith i am charged been more than but lamely proved--yet i speak not of that; the judgment is gone forth against me and may not suffer alteration; yet in mine extremity i beg a boon, for my doom is more than i can bear. a grace, a grace, my lord the king! in thy royal compassion grant my prayer--give commandment that i be hanged!" tom was amazed. this was not the outcome he had looked for. "odds my life, a strange boon! was it not the fate intended thee?" "o good my liege, not so! it is ordered that i be boiled alive!" the hideous surprise of these words almost made tom spring from his chair. as soon as he could recover his wits he cried out-- "have thy wish, poor soul! an' thou had poisoned a hundred men thou shouldst not suffer so miserable a death." the prisoner bowed his face to the ground and burst into passionate expressions of gratitude--ending with-- "if ever thou shouldst know misfortune--which god forefend!--may thy goodness to me this day be remembered and requited!" tom turned to the earl of hertford, and said-- "my lord, is it believable that there was warrant for this man's ferocious doom?" "it is the law, your grace--for poisoners. in germany coiners be boiled to death in oil--not cast in of a sudden, but by a rope let down into the oil by degrees, and slowly; first the feet, then the legs, then--" "o prithee no more, my lord, i cannot bear it!" cried tom, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the picture. "i beseech your good lordship that order be taken to change this law--oh, let no more poor creatures be visited with its tortures." the earl's face showed profound gratification, for he was a man of merciful and generous impulses--a thing not very common with his class in that fierce age. he said-- "these your grace's noble words have sealed its doom. history will remember it to the honour of your royal house." the under-sheriff was about to remove his prisoner; tom gave him a sign to wait; then he said-- "good sir, i would look into this matter further. the man has said his deed was but lamely proved. tell me what thou knowest." "if the king's grace please, it did appear upon the trial that this man entered into a house in the hamlet of islington where one lay sick--three witnesses say it was at ten of the clock in the morning, and two say it was some minutes later--the sick man being alone at the time, and sleeping--and presently the man came forth again and went his way. the sick man died within the hour, being torn with spasms and retchings." "did any see the poison given? was poison found?" "marry, no, my liege." "then how doth one know there was poison given at all?" "please your majesty, the doctors testified that none die with such symptoms but by poison." weighty evidence, this, in that simple age. tom recognised its formidable nature, and said-- "the doctor knoweth his trade--belike they were right. the matter hath an ill-look for this poor man." "yet was not this all, your majesty; there is more and worse. many testified that a witch, since gone from the village, none know whither, did foretell, and speak it privately in their ears, that the sick man would die by poison--and more, that a stranger would give it--a stranger with brown hair and clothed in a worn and common garb; and surely this prisoner doth answer woundily to the bill. please your majesty to give the circumstance that solemn weight which is its due, seeing it was foretold." this was an argument of tremendous force in that superstitious day. tom felt that the thing was settled; if evidence was worth anything, this poor fellow's guilt was proved. still he offered the prisoner a chance, saying-- "if thou canst say aught in thy behalf, speak." "nought that will avail, my king. i am innocent, yet cannot i make it appear. i have no friends, else might i show that i was not in islington that day; so also might i show that at that hour they name i was above a league away, seeing i was at wapping old stairs; yea more, my king, for i could show, that whilst they say i was taking life, i was saving it. a drowning boy--" "peace! sheriff, name the day the deed was done!" "at ten in the morning, or some minutes later, the first day of the new year, most illustrious--" "let the prisoner go free--it is the king's will!" another blush followed this unregal outburst, and he covered his indecorum as well as he could by adding-- "it enrageth me that a man should be hanged upon such idle, hare-brained evidence!" a low buzz of admiration swept through the assemblage. it was not admiration of the decree that had been delivered by tom, for the propriety or expediency of pardoning a convicted poisoner was a thing which few there would have felt justified in either admitting or admiring--no, the admiration was for the intelligence and spirit which tom had displayed. some of the low-voiced remarks were to this effect-- "this is no mad king--he hath his wits sound." "how sanely he put his questions--how like his former natural self was this abrupt imperious disposal of the matter!" "god be thanked, his infirmity is spent! this is no weakling, but a king. he hath borne himself like to his own father." the air being filled with applause, tom's ear necessarily caught a little of it. the effect which this had upon him was to put him greatly at his ease, and also to charge his system with very gratifying sensations. however, his juvenile curiosity soon rose superior to these pleasant thoughts and feelings; he was eager to know what sort of deadly mischief the woman and the little girl could have been about; so, by his command, the two terrified and sobbing creatures were brought before him. "what is it that these have done?" he inquired of the sheriff. "please your majesty, a black crime is charged upon them, and clearly proven; wherefore the judges have decreed, according to the law, that they be hanged. they sold themselves to the devil--such is their crime." tom shuddered. he had been taught to abhor people who did this wicked thing. still, he was not going to deny himself the pleasure of feeding his curiosity for all that; so he asked-- "where was this done?--and when?" "on a midnight in december, in a ruined church, your majesty." tom shuddered again. "who was there present?" "only these two, your grace--and that other." "have these confessed?" "nay, not so, sire--they do deny it." "then prithee, how was it known?" "certain witness did see them wending thither, good your majesty; this bred the suspicion, and dire effects have since confirmed and justified it. in particular, it is in evidence that through the wicked power so obtained, they did invoke and bring about a storm that wasted all the region round about. above forty witnesses have proved the storm; and sooth one might have had a thousand, for all had reason to remember it, sith all had suffered by it." "certes this is a serious matter." tom turned this dark piece of scoundrelism over in his mind a while, then asked-- "suffered the woman also by the storm?" several old heads among the assemblage nodded their recognition of the wisdom of this question. the sheriff, however, saw nothing consequential in the inquiry; he answered, with simple directness-- "indeed did she, your majesty, and most righteously, as all aver. her habitation was swept away, and herself and child left shelterless." "methinks the power to do herself so ill a turn was dearly bought. she had been cheated, had she paid but a farthing for it; that she paid her soul, and her child's, argueth that she is mad; if she is mad she knoweth not what she doth, therefore sinneth not." the elderly heads nodded recognition of tom's wisdom once more, and one individual murmured, "an' the king be mad himself, according to report, then is it a madness of a sort that would improve the sanity of some i wot of, if by the gentle providence of god they could but catch it." "what age hath the child?" asked tom. "nine years, please your majesty." "by the law of england may a child enter into covenant and sell itself, my lord?" asked tom, turning to a learned judge. "the law doth not permit a child to make or meddle in any weighty matter, good my liege, holding that its callow wit unfitteth it to cope with the riper wit and evil schemings of them that are its elders. the devil may buy a child, if he so choose, and the child agree thereto, but not an englishman--in this latter case the contract would be null and void." "it seemeth a rude unchristian thing, and ill contrived, that english law denieth privileges to englishmen to waste them on the devil!" cried tom, with honest heat. this novel view of the matter excited many smiles, and was stored away in many heads to be repeated about the court as evidence of tom's originality as well as progress toward mental health. the elder culprit had ceased from sobbing, and was hanging upon tom's words with an excited interest and a growing hope. tom noticed this, and it strongly inclined his sympathies toward her in her perilous and unfriended situation. presently he asked-- "how wrought they to bring the storm?" "by pulling off their stockings, sire." this astonished tom, and also fired his curiosity to fever heat. he said, eagerly-- "it is wonderful! hath it always this dread effect?" "always, my liege--at least if the woman desire it, and utter the needful words, either in her mind or with her tongue." tom turned to the woman, and said with impetuous zeal-- "exert thy power--i would see a storm!" there was a sudden paling of cheeks in the superstitious assemblage, and a general, though unexpressed, desire to get out of the place--all of which was lost upon tom, who was dead to everything but the proposed cataclysm. seeing a puzzled and astonished look in the woman's face, he added, excitedly-- "never fear--thou shalt be blameless. more--thou shalt go free--none shall touch thee. exert thy power." "oh, my lord the king, i have it not--i have been falsely accused." "thy fears stay thee. be of good heart, thou shalt suffer no harm. make a storm--it mattereth not how small a one--i require nought great or harmful, but indeed prefer the opposite--do this and thy life is spared --thou shalt go out free, with thy child, bearing the king's pardon, and safe from hurt or malice from any in the realm." the woman prostrated herself, and protested, with tears, that she had no power to do the miracle, else she would gladly win her child's life alone, and be content to lose her own, if by obedience to the king's command so precious a grace might be acquired. tom urged--the woman still adhered to her declarations. finally he said-- "i think the woman hath said true. an' my mother were in her place and gifted with the devil's functions, she had not stayed a moment to call her storms and lay the whole land in ruins, if the saving of my forfeit life were the price she got! it is argument that other mothers are made in like mould. thou art free, goodwife--thou and thy child--for i do think thee innocent. now thou'st nought to fear, being pardoned--pull off thy stockings!--an' thou canst make me a storm, thou shalt be rich!" the redeemed creature was loud in her gratitude, and proceeded to obey, whilst tom looked on with eager expectancy, a little marred by apprehension; the courtiers at the same time manifesting decided discomfort and uneasiness. the woman stripped her own feet and her little girl's also, and plainly did her best to reward the king's generosity with an earthquake, but it was all a failure and a disappointment. tom sighed, and said-- "there, good soul, trouble thyself no further, thy power is departed out of thee. go thy way in peace; and if it return to thee at any time, forget me not, but fetch me a storm." { } chapter xvi. the state dinner. the dinner hour drew near--yet strangely enough, the thought brought but slight discomfort to tom, and hardly any terror. the morning's experiences had wonderfully built up his confidence; the poor little ash-cat was already more wonted to his strange garret, after four days' habit, than a mature person could have become in a full month. a child's facility in accommodating itself to circumstances was never more strikingly illustrated. let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have a glance at matters there whilst tom is being made ready for the imposing occasion. it is a spacious apartment, with gilded pillars and pilasters, and pictured walls and ceilings. at the door stand tall guards, as rigid as statues, dressed in rich and picturesque costumes, and bearing halberds. in a high gallery which runs all around the place is a band of musicians and a packed company of citizens of both sexes, in brilliant attire. in the centre of the room, upon a raised platform, is tom's table. now let the ancient chronicler speak: "a gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him another bearing a tablecloth, which, after they have both kneeled three times with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table, and after kneeling again they both retire; then come two others, one with the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and bread; when they have kneeled as the others had done, and placed what was brought upon the table, they too retire with the same ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two nobles, richly clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after prostrating themselves three times in the most graceful manner, approach and rub the table with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the king had been present." { } so end the solemn preliminaries. now, far down the echoing corridors we hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, "place for the king! way for the king's most excellent majesty!" these sounds are momently repeated --they grow nearer and nearer--and presently, almost in our faces, the martial note peals and the cry rings out, "way for the king!" at this instant the shining pageant appears, and files in at the door, with a measured march. let the chronicler speak again:-- "first come gentlemen, barons, earls, knights of the garter, all richly dressed and bareheaded; next comes the chancellor, between two, one of which carries the royal sceptre, the other the sword of state in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point upwards; next comes the king himself--whom, upon his appearing, twelve trumpets and many drums salute with a great burst of welcome, whilst all in the galleries rise in their places, crying 'god save the king!' after him come nobles attached to his person, and on his right and left march his guard of honour, his fifty gentlemen pensioners, with gilt battle-axes." this was all fine and pleasant. tom's pulse beat high, and a glad light was in his eye. he bore himself right gracefully, and all the more so because he was not thinking of how he was doing it, his mind being charmed and occupied with the blithe sights and sounds about him--and besides, nobody can be very ungraceful in nicely-fitting beautiful clothes after he has grown a little used to them--especially if he is for the moment unconscious of them. tom remembered his instructions, and acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of his plumed head, and a courteous "i thank ye, my good people." he seated himself at table, without removing his cap; and did it without the least embarrassment; for to eat with one's cap on was the one solitary royal custom upon which the kings and the cantys met upon common ground, neither party having any advantage over the other in the matter of old familiarity with it. the pageant broke up and grouped itself picturesquely, and remained bareheaded. now to the sound of gay music the yeomen of the guard entered,--"the tallest and mightiest men in england, they being carefully selected in this regard"--but we will let the chronicler tell about it:-- "the yeomen of the guard entered, bareheaded, clothed in scarlet, with golden roses upon their backs; and these went and came, bringing in each turn a course of dishes, served in plate. these dishes were received by a gentleman in the same order they were brought, and placed upon the table, while the taster gave to each guard a mouthful to eat of the particular dish he had brought, for fear of any poison." tom made a good dinner, notwithstanding he was conscious that hundreds of eyes followed each morsel to his mouth and watched him eat it with an interest which could not have been more intense if it had been a deadly explosive and was expected to blow him up and scatter him all about the place. he was careful not to hurry, and equally careful not to do anything whatever for himself, but wait till the proper official knelt down and did it for him. he got through without a mistake--flawless and precious triumph. when the meal was over at last and he marched away in the midst of his bright pageant, with the happy noises in his ears of blaring bugles, rolling drums, and thundering acclamations, he felt that if he had seen the worst of dining in public it was an ordeal which he would be glad to endure several times a day if by that means he could but buy himself free from some of the more formidable requirements of his royal office. chapter xvii. foo-foo the first. miles hendon hurried along toward the southwark end of the bridge, keeping a sharp look-out for the persons he sought, and hoping and expecting to overtake them presently. he was disappointed in this, however. by asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the way through southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as to how to proceed. still, he continued his efforts as best he could during the rest of the day. nightfall found him leg-weary, half-famished, and his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so he supped at the tabard inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early start in the morning, and give the town an exhaustive search. as he lay thinking and planning, he presently began to reason thus: the boy would escape from the ruffian, his reputed father, if possible; would he go back to london and seek his former haunts? no, he would not do that, he would avoid recapture. what, then, would he do? never having had a friend in the world, or a protector, until he met miles hendon, he would naturally try to find that friend again, provided the effort did not require him to go toward london and danger. he would strike for hendon hall, that is what he would do, for he knew hendon was homeward bound and there he might expect to find him. yes, the case was plain to hendon--he must lose no more time in southwark, but move at once through kent, toward monk's holm, searching the wood and inquiring as he went. let us return to the vanished little king now. the ruffian whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw 'about to join' the youth and the king did not exactly join them, but fell in close behind them and followed their steps. he said nothing. his left arm was in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left eye; he limped slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support. the youth led the king a crooked course through southwark, and by-and-by struck into the high road beyond. the king was irritated, now, and said he would stop here--it was hendon's place to come to him, not his to go to hendon. he would not endure such insolence; he would stop where he was. the youth said-- "thou'lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood yonder? so be it, then." the king's manner changed at once. he cried out-- "wounded? and who hath dared to do it? but that is apart; lead on, lead on! faster, sirrah! art shod with lead? wounded, is he? now though the doer of it be a duke's son he shall rue it!" it was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily traversed. the youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking in the ground, with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way into the forest, watching for similar boughs and finding them at intervals; they were evidently guides to the point he was aiming at. by-and-by an open place was reached, where were the charred remains of a farm-house, and near them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay. there was no sign of life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed. the youth entered the barn, the king following eagerly upon his heels. no one there! the king shot a surprised and suspicious glance at the youth, and asked-- "where is he?" a mocking laugh was his answer. the king was in a rage in a moment; he seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon the youth when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear. it was from the lame ruffian who had been following at a distance. the king turned and said angrily-- "who art thou? what is thy business here?" "leave thy foolery," said the man, "and quiet thyself. my disguise is none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father through it." "thou art not my father. i know thee not. i am the king. if thou hast hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for what thou hast done." john canty replied, in a stern and measured voice-- "it is plain thou art mad, and i am loath to punish thee; but if thou provoke me, i must. thy prating doth no harm here, where there are no ears that need to mind thy follies; yet it is well to practise thy tongue to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our quarters change. i have done a murder, and may not tarry at home--neither shalt thou, seeing i need thy service. my name is changed, for wise reasons; it is hobbs --john hobbs; thine is jack--charge thy memory accordingly. now, then, speak. where is thy mother? where are thy sisters? they came not to the place appointed--knowest thou whither they went?" the king answered sullenly-- "trouble me not with these riddles. my mother is dead; my sisters are in the palace." the youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the king would have assaulted him, but canty--or hobbs, as he now called himself--prevented him, and said-- "peace, hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret him. sit thee down, jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a morsel to eat, anon." hobbs and hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the king removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable company. he withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn, where he found the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw. he lay down here, drew straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon absorbed in thinking. he had many griefs, but the minor ones were swept almost into forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his father. to the rest of the world the name of henry viii. brought a shiver, and suggested an ogre whose nostrils breathed destruction and whose hand dealt scourgings and death; but to this boy the name brought only sensations of pleasure; the figure it invoked wore a countenance that was all gentleness and affection. he called to mind a long succession of loving passages between his father and himself, and dwelt fondly upon them, his unstinted tears attesting how deep and real was the grief that possessed his heart. as the afternoon wasted away, the lad, wearied with his troubles, sank gradually into a tranquil and healing slumber. after a considerable time--he could not tell how long--his senses struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed eyes vaguely wondering where he was and what had been happening, he noted a murmurous sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. a snug sense of comfort stole over him, which was rudely broken, the next moment, by a chorus of piping cackles and coarse laughter. it startled him disagreeably, and he unmuffled his head to see whence this interruption proceeded. a grim and unsightly picture met his eye. a bright fire was burning in the middle of the floor, at the other end of the barn; and around it, and lit weirdly up by the red glare, lolled and sprawled the motliest company of tattered gutter-scum and ruffians, of both sexes, he had ever read or dreamed of. there were huge stalwart men, brown with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in fantastic rags; there were middle-sized youths, of truculent countenance, and similarly clad; there were blind mendicants, with patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones, with wooden legs and crutches; diseased ones, with running sores peeping from ineffectual wrappings; there was a villain-looking pedlar with his pack; a knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the implements of their trades; some of the females were hardly-grown girls, some were at prime, some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud, brazen, foul-mouthed; and all soiled and slatternly; there were three sore-faced babies; there were a couple of starveling curs, with strings about their necks, whose office was to lead the blind. the night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy was beginning; the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. a general cry broke forth-- "a song! a song from the bat and dick and dot-and-go-one!" one of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the patches that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard which recited the cause of his calamity. dot-and-go-one disencumbered himself of his timber leg and took his place, upon sound and healthy limbs, beside his fellow-rascal; then they roared out a rollicking ditty, and were reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of each stanza, in a rousing chorus. by the time the last stanza was reached, the half-drunken enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch, that everybody joined in and sang it clear through from the beginning, producing a volume of villainous sound that made the rafters quake. these were the inspiring words:-- 'bien darkman's then, bouse mort and ken, the bien coves bings awast, on chates to trine by rome coves dine for his long lib at last. bing'd out bien morts and toure, and toure, bing out of the rome vile bine, and toure the cove that cloy'd your duds, upon the chates to trine.' (from 'the english rogue.' london, .) conversation followed; not in the thieves' dialect of the song, for that was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be listening. in the course of it, it appeared that 'john hobbs' was not altogether a new recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former time. his later history was called for, and when he said he had 'accidentally' killed a man, considerable satisfaction was expressed; when he added that the man was a priest, he was roundly applauded, and had to take a drink with everybody. old acquaintances welcomed him joyously, and new ones were proud to shake him by the hand. he was asked why he had 'tarried away so many months.' he answered-- "london is better than the country, and safer, these late years, the laws be so bitter and so diligently enforced. an' i had not had that accident, i had stayed there. i had resolved to stay, and never more venture country-wards--but the accident has ended that." he inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. the 'ruffler,' or chief, answered-- "five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts. { } most are here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. we follow at dawn." "i do not see the wen among the honest folk about me. where may he be?" "poor lad, his diet is brimstone, now, and over hot for a delicate taste. he was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer." "i sorrow to hear that; the wen was a capable man, and brave." "that was he, truly. black bess, his dell, is of us yet, but absent on the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly conduct, none ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven." "she was ever strict--i remember it well--a goodly wench and worthy all commendation. her mother was more free and less particular; a troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit above the common." "we lost her through it. her gift of palmistry and other sorts of fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch's name and fame. the law roasted her to death at a slow fire. it did touch me to a sort of tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot--cursing and reviling all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the flames licked upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and crackled about her old gray head--cursing them! why an' thou should'st live a thousand years thoud'st never hear so masterful a cursing. alack, her art died with her. there be base and weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy." the ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able to feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals and under peculiarly favouring circumstances--as in cases like to this, for instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir. however, a deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the mourners. "have any others of our friends fared hardly?" asked hobbs. "some--yes. particularly new comers--such as small husbandmen turned shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were taken from them to be changed to sheep ranges. they begged, and were whipped at the cart's tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood ran; then set in the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were whipped again, and deprived of an ear; they begged a third time--poor devils, what else could they do?--and were branded on the cheek with a red-hot iron, then sold for slaves; they ran away, were hunted down, and hanged. 'tis a brief tale, and quickly told. others of us have fared less hardly. stand forth, yokel, burns, and hodge--show your adornments!" these stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing their backs, criss-crossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one turned up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once been; another showed a brand upon his shoulder--the letter v--and a mutilated ear; the third said-- "i am yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and kids--now am i somewhat different in estate and calling; and the wife and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in--in the other place--but the kindly god be thanked, they bide no more in england! my good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by nursing the sick; one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so my mother was burnt for a witch, whilst my babes looked on and wailed. english law!--up, all, with your cups!--now all together and with a cheer!--drink to the merciful english law that delivered her from the english hell! thank you, mates, one and all. i begged, from house to house--i and the wife--bearing with us the hungry kids--but it was crime to be hungry in england--so they stripped us and lashed us through three towns. drink ye all again to the merciful english law!--for its lash drank deep of my mary's blood and its blessed deliverance came quick. she lies there, in the potter's field, safe from all harms. and the kids--well, whilst the law lashed me from town to town, they starved. drink, lads--only a drop--a drop to the poor kids, that never did any creature harm. i begged again--begged, for a crust, and got the stocks and lost an ear--see, here bides the stump; i begged again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me minded of it. and still i begged again, and was sold for a slave--here on my cheek under this stain, if i washed it off, ye might see the red s the branding-iron left there! a slave! do you understand that word? an english slave! --that is he that stands before ye. i have run from my master, and when i am found--the heavy curse of heaven fall on the law of the land that hath commanded it!--i shall hang!" { } a ringing voice came through the murky air-- "thou shalt not!--and this day the end of that law is come!" all turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little king approaching hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly revealed, a general explosion of inquiries broke out-- "who is it? what is it? who art thou, manikin?" the boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity-- "i am edward, king of england." a wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly of delight in the excellence of the joke. the king was stung. he said sharply-- "ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal boon i have promised?" he said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was lost in a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. 'john hobbs' made several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last succeeded--saying-- "mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad--mind him not--he thinketh he is the king." "i am the king," said edward, turning toward him, "as thou shalt know to thy cost, in good time. thou hast confessed a murder--thou shalt swing for it." "thou'lt betray me?--thou? an' i get my hands upon thee--" "tut-tut!" said the burley ruffler, interposing in time to save the king, and emphasising this service by knocking hobbs down with his fist, "hast respect for neither kings nor rufflers? an' thou insult my presence so again, i'll hang thee up myself." then he said to his majesty, "thou must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. be king, if it please thy mad humour, but be not harmful in it. sink the title thou hast uttered--'tis treason; we be bad men in some few trifling ways, but none among us is so base as to be traitor to his king; we be loving and loyal hearts, in that regard. note if i speak truth. now--all together: 'long live edward, king of england!'" "long live edward, king of england!" the response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the crazy building vibrated to the sound. the little king's face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head, and said with grave simplicity-- "i thank you, my good people." this unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment. when something like quiet was presently come again, the ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature-- "drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. humour thy fancy, if thou must, but choose some other title." a tinker shrieked out a suggestion-- "foo-foo the first, king of the mooncalves!" the title 'took,' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout went up, of-- "long live foo-foo the first, king of the mooncalves!" followed by hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter. "hale him forth, and crown him!" "robe him!" "sceptre him!" "throne him!" these and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptred with the tinker's soldering-iron. then all flung themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking supplications, whilst they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons-- "be gracious to us, o sweet king!" "trample not upon thy beseeching worms, o noble majesty!" "pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!" "cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, o flaming sun of sovereignty!" "sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat the dirt and be ennobled!" "deign to spit upon us, o sire, that our children's children may tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy for ever!" but the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and carried off the honours. kneeling, he pretended to kiss the king's foot, and was indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a rag to paste over the place upon his face which had been touched by the foot, saying it must be preserved from contact with the vulgar air, and that he should make his fortune by going on the highway and exposing it to view at the rate of a hundred shillings a sight. he made himself so killingly funny that he was the envy and admiration of the whole mangy rabble. tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch's eyes; and the thought in his heart was, "had i offered them a deep wrong they could not be more cruel--yet have i proffered nought but to do them a kindness --and it is thus they use me for it!" the prince and the pauper by mark twain part . chapter xviii. the prince with the tramps. the troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on their march. there was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under foot, and a winter chill in the air. all gaiety was gone from the company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were gentle-humoured, all were thirsty. the ruffler put 'jack' in hugo's charge, with some brief instructions, and commanded john canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he also warned hugo not to be too rough with the lad. after a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat. the troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve. they grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and insult passengers along the highway. this showed that they were awaking to an appreciation of life and its joys once more. the dread in which their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back. they snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that they did not take the hedges, too. by-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to furnish a breakfast for them. they chucked the housewife and her daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from their hands, and made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and bursts of horse-laughter. they threw bones and vegetables at the farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously when a good hit was made. they ended by buttering the head of one of the daughters who resented some of their familiarities. when they took their leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the authorities. about noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. an hour was allowed for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village at different points to ply their various trades--'jack' was sent with hugo. they wandered hither and thither for some time, hugo watching for opportunities to do a stroke of business, but finding none--so he finally said-- "i see nought to steal; it is a paltry place. wherefore we will beg." "we, forsooth! follow thy trade--it befits thee. but _i_ will not beg." "thou'lt not beg!" exclaimed hugo, eyeing the king with surprise. "prithee, since when hast thou reformed?" "what dost thou mean?" "mean? hast thou not begged the streets of london all thy life?" "i? thou idiot!" "spare thy compliments--thy stock will last the longer. thy father says thou hast begged all thy days. mayhap he lied. peradventure you will even make so bold as to say he lied," scoffed hugo. "him you call my father? yes, he lied." "come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy amusement, not thy hurt. an' i tell him this, he will scorch thee finely for it." "save thyself the trouble. i will tell him." "i like thy spirit, i do in truth; but i do not admire thy judgment. bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going out of one's way to invite them. but a truce to these matters; _i_ believe your father. i doubt not he can lie; i doubt not he doth lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion here. a wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for nought. but come; sith it is thy humour to give over begging, wherewithal shall we busy ourselves? with robbing kitchens?" the king said, impatiently-- "have done with this folly--you weary me!" hugo replied, with temper-- "now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. but i will tell you what you will do. you will play decoy whilst _i_ beg. refuse, an' you think you may venture!" the king was about to reply contemptuously, when hugo said, interrupting-- "peace! here comes one with a kindly face. now will i fall down in a fit. when the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the devils of misery were in your belly, and say, 'oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be friendless; o' god's name cast through your merciful eyes one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of god and ready to perish!' --and mind you, keep you on wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his penny, else shall you rue it." then immediately hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony. "o, dear, o dear!" cried the benevolent stranger, "o poor soul, poor soul, how he doth suffer! there--let me help thee up." "o noble sir, forbear, and god love you for a princely gentleman--but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when i am taken so. my brother there will tell your worship how i am racked with anguish when these fits be upon me. a penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me to my sorrows." "a penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature"--and he fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. "there, poor lad, take them and most welcome. now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy stricken brother to yon house, where--" "i am not his brother," said the king, interrupting. "what! not his brother?" "oh, hear him!" groaned hugo, then privately ground his teeth. "he denies his own brother--and he with one foot in the grave!" "boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. for shame! --and he scarce able to move hand or foot. if he is not thy brother, who is he, then?" "a beggar and a thief! he has got your money and has picked your pocket likewise. an' thou would'st do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over his shoulders and trust providence for the rest." but hugo did not tarry for the miracle. in a moment he was up and off like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry lustily as he went. the king, breathing deep gratitude to heaven for his own release, fled in the opposite direction, and did not slacken his pace until he was out of harm's reach. he took the first road that offered, and soon put the village behind him. he hurried along, as briskly as he could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of security took their place. he recognised, now, that he was hungry, and also very tired. so he halted at a farmhouse; but when he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away. his clothes were against him. he wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself in the way of like treatment no more. but hunger is pride's master; so, as the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farmhouse; but here he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly. the night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch laboured slowly on. he was obliged to keep moving, for every time he sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold. all his sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. at intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that made him shudder. occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light--always far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard the tinkle of a sheep's bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were remote; they made the little king feel that all life and activity were far removed from him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in the centre of a measureless solitude. he stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry leaves overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by-and-by he came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern near at hand. he stepped back into the shadows and waited. the lantern stood by the open door of a barn. the king waited some time--there was no sound, and nobody stirring. he got so cold, standing still, and the hospitable barn looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and enter. he started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing the threshold he heard voices behind him. he darted behind a cask, within the barn, and stooped down. two farm-labourers came in, bringing the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking meanwhile. whilst they moved about with the light, the king made good use of his eyes and took the bearings of what seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end of the place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be left to himself. he also noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway of the route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the crown of england for one night. by-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door behind them and taking the lantern with them. the shivering king made for the blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow; gathered them up, and then groped his way safely to the stall. of two of the blankets he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two. he was a glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin, and not quite warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost suffocatingly powerful. although the king was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and so drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the advantage of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of semi-consciousness. then, just as he was on the point of losing himself wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him! he was broad awake in a moment, and gasping for breath. the cold horror of that mysterious touch in the dark almost made his heart stand still. he lay motionless, and listened, scarcely breathing. but nothing stirred, and there was no sound. he continued to listen, and wait, during what seemed a long time, but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound. so he began to drop into a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that mysterious touch again! it was a grisly thing, this light touch from this noiseless and invisible presence; it made the boy sick with ghostly fears. what should he do? that was the question; but he did not know how to answer it. should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters and fly from this inscrutable horror? but fly whither? he could not get out of the barn; and the idea of scurrying blindly hither and thither in the dark, within the captivity of the four walls, with this phantom gliding after him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon cheek or shoulder at every turn, was intolerable. but to stay where he was, and endure this living death all night--was that better? no. what, then, was there left to do? ah, there was but one course; he knew it well--he must put out his hand and find that thing! it was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to try it. three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the dark, gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--not because it had encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just going to. but the fourth time, he groped a little further, and his hand lightly swept against something soft and warm. this petrified him, nearly, with fright; his mind was in such a state that he could imagine the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm. he thought he would rather die than touch it again. but he thought this false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of human curiosity. in no long time his hand was tremblingly groping again --against his judgment, and without his consent--but groping persistently on, just the same. it encountered a bunch of long hair; he shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for the rope was not a rope at all, but the calf's tail. the king was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf; but he need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that frightened him, but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf stood for; and any other boy, in those old superstitious times, would have acted and suffered just as he had done. the king was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had been feeling so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of even this humble animal were welcome. and he had been so buffeted, so rudely entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to feel that he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at least a soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes might be lacking. so he resolved to waive rank and make friends with the calf. while stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within easy reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in more ways than one. whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf's back, drew the covers up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two was as warm and comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches of the regal palace of westminster. pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller seeming. he was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the companionship of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he was happy. the night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts that made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down at intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and projections --but it was all music to the king, now that he was snug and comfortable: let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he minded it not, he only enjoyed it. he merely snuggled the closer to his friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted blissfully out of consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that was full of serenity and peace. the distant dogs howled, the melancholy kine complained, and the winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets of rain drove along the roof; but the majesty of england slept on, undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it being a simple creature, and not easily troubled by storms or embarrassed by sleeping with a king. chapter xix. the prince with the peasants. when the king awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet but thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and made a cosy bed for itself in his bosom. being disturbed now, it scampered away. the boy smiled, and said, "poor fool, why so fearful? i am as forlorn as thou. 'twould be a sham in me to hurt the helpless, who am myself so helpless. moreover, i owe you thanks for a good omen; for when a king has fallen so low that the very rats do make a bed of him, it surely meaneth that his fortunes be upon the turn, since it is plain he can no lower go." he got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the sound of children's voices. the barn door opened and a couple of little girls came in. as soon as they saw him their talking and laughing ceased, and they stopped and stood still, gazing at him with strong curiosity; they presently began to whisper together, then they approached nearer, and stopped again to gaze and whisper. by-and-by they gathered courage and began to discuss him aloud. one said-- "he hath a comely face." the other added-- "and pretty hair." "but is ill clothed enow." "and how starved he looketh." they came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him, examining him minutely from all points, as if he were some strange new kind of animal, but warily and watchfully the while, as if they half feared he might be a sort of animal that would bite, upon occasion. finally they halted before him, holding each other's hands for protection, and took a good satisfying stare with their innocent eyes; then one of them plucked up all her courage and inquired with honest directness-- "who art thou, boy?" "i am the king," was the grave answer. the children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves wide open and remained so during a speechless half minute. then curiosity broke the silence-- "the king? what king?" "the king of england." the children looked at each other--then at him--then at each other again --wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said-- "didst hear him, margery?--he said he is the king. can that be true?" "how can it be else but true, prissy? would he say a lie? for look you, prissy, an' it were not true, it would be a lie. it surely would be. now think on't. for all things that be not true, be lies--thou canst make nought else out of it." it was a good tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere; and it left prissy's half-doubts not a leg to stand on. she considered a moment, then put the king upon his honour with the simple remark-- "if thou art truly the king, then i believe thee." "i am truly the king." this settled the matter. his majesty's royalty was accepted without further question or discussion, and the two little girls began at once to inquire into how he came to be where he was, and how he came to be so unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and all about his affairs. it was a mighty relief to him to pour out his troubles where they would not be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his tale with feeling, forgetting even his hunger for the time; and it was received with the deepest and tenderest sympathy by the gentle little maids. but when he got down to his latest experiences and they learned how long he had been without food, they cut him short and hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a breakfast for him. the king was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, "when i am come to mine own again, i will always honour little children, remembering how that these trusted me and believed in me in my time of trouble; whilst they that were older, and thought themselves wiser, mocked at me and held me for a liar." the children's mother received the king kindly, and was full of pity; for his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect touched her womanly heart. she was a widow, and rather poor; consequently she had seen trouble enough to enable her to feel for the unfortunate. she imagined that the demented boy had wandered away from his friends or keepers; so she tried to find out whence he had come, in order that she might take measures to return him; but all her references to neighbouring towns and villages, and all her inquiries in the same line went for nothing--the boy's face, and his answers, too, showed that the things she was talking of were not familiar to him. he spoke earnestly and simply about court matters, and broke down, more than once, when speaking of the late king 'his father'; but whenever the conversation changed to baser topics, he lost interest and became silent. the woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up. as she proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to contriving devices to surprise the boy into betraying his real secret. she talked about cattle--he showed no concern; then about sheep--the same result: so her guess that he had been a shepherd boy was an error; she talked about mills; and about weavers, tinkers, smiths, trades and tradesmen of all sorts; and about bedlam, and jails, and charitable retreats: but no matter, she was baffled at all points. not altogether, either; for she argued that she had narrowed the thing down to domestic service. yes, she was sure she was on the right track, now; he must have been a house servant. so she led up to that. but the result was discouraging. the subject of sweeping appeared to weary him; fire-building failed to stir him; scrubbing and scouring awoke no enthusiasm. the goodwife touched, with a perishing hope, and rather as a matter of form, upon the subject of cooking. to her surprise, and her vast delight, the king's face lighted at once! ah, she had hunted him down at last, she thought; and she was right proud, too, of the devious shrewdness and tact which had accomplished it. her tired tongue got a chance to rest, now; for the king's, inspired by gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells that came from the sputtering pots and pans, turned itself loose and delivered itself up to such an eloquent dissertation upon certain toothsome dishes, that within three minutes the woman said to herself, "of a truth i was right--he hath holpen in a kitchen!" then he broadened his bill of fare, and discussed it with such appreciation and animation, that the goodwife said to herself, "good lack! how can he know so many dishes, and so fine ones withal? for these belong only upon the tables of the rich and great. ah, now i see! ragged outcast as he is, he must have served in the palace before his reason went astray; yes, he must have helped in the very kitchen of the king himself! i will test him." full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the king to mind the cooking a moment--hinting that he might manufacture and add a dish or two, if he chose; then she went out of the room and gave her children a sign to follow after. the king muttered-- "another english king had a commission like to this, in a bygone time--it is nothing against my dignity to undertake an office which the great alfred stooped to assume. but i will try to better serve my trust than he; for he let the cakes burn." the intent was good, but the performance was not answerable to it, for this king, like the other one, soon fell into deep thinkings concerning his vast affairs, and the same calamity resulted--the cookery got burned. the woman returned in time to save the breakfast from entire destruction; and she promptly brought the king out of his dreams with a brisk and cordial tongue-lashing. then, seeing how troubled he was over his violated trust, she softened at once, and was all goodness and gentleness toward him. the boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly refreshed and gladdened by it. it was a meal which was distinguished by this curious feature, that rank was waived on both sides; yet neither recipient of the favour was aware that it had been extended. the goodwife had intended to feed this young tramp with broken victuals in a corner, like any other tramp or like a dog; but she was so remorseful for the scolding she had given him, that she did what she could to atone for it by allowing him to sit at the family table and eat with his betters, on ostensible terms of equality with them; and the king, on his side, was so remorseful for having broken his trust, after the family had been so kind to him, that he forced himself to atone for it by humbling himself to the family level, instead of requiring the woman and her children to stand and wait upon him, while he occupied their table in the solitary state due to his birth and dignity. it does us all good to unbend sometimes. this good woman was made happy all the day long by the applauses which she got out of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a tramp; and the king was just as self-complacent over his gracious humility toward a humble peasant woman. when breakfast was over, the housewife told the king to wash up the dishes. this command was a staggerer, for a moment, and the king came near rebelling; but then he said to himself, "alfred the great watched the cakes; doubtless he would have washed the dishes too--therefore will i essay it." he made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his surprise too, for the cleaning of wooden spoons and trenchers had seemed an easy thing to do. it was a tedious and troublesome piece of work, but he finished it at last. he was becoming impatient to get away on his journey now; however, he was not to lose this thrifty dame's society so easily. she furnished him some little odds and ends of employment, which he got through with after a fair fashion and with some credit. then she set him and the little girls to paring some winter apples; but he was so awkward at this service that she retired him from it and gave him a butcher knife to grind. afterwards she kept him carding wool until he began to think he had laid the good king alfred about far enough in the shade for the present in the matter of showy menial heroisms that would read picturesquely in story-books and histories, and so he was half-minded to resign. and when, just after the noonday dinner, the goodwife gave him a basket of kittens to drown, he did resign. at least he was just going to resign--for he felt that he must draw the line somewhere, and it seemed to him that to draw it at kitten-drowning was about the right thing--when there was an interruption. the interruption was john canty--with a peddler's pack on his back--and hugo. the king discovered these rascals approaching the front gate before they had had a chance to see him; so he said nothing about drawing the line, but took up his basket of kittens and stepped quietly out the back way, without a word. he left the creatures in an out-house, and hurried on, into a narrow lane at the rear. chapter xx. the prince and the hermit. the high hedge hid him from the house, now; and so, under the impulse of a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped toward a wood in the distance. he never looked back until he had almost gained the shelter of the forest; then he turned and descried two figures in the distance. that was sufficient; he did not wait to scan them critically, but hurried on, and never abated his pace till he was far within the twilight depths of the wood. then he stopped; being persuaded that he was now tolerably safe. he listened intently, but the stillness was profound and solemn --awful, even, and depressing to the spirits. at wide intervals his straining ear did detect sounds, but they were so remote, and hollow, and mysterious, that they seemed not to be real sounds, but only the moaning and complaining ghosts of departed ones. so the sounds were yet more dreary than the silence which they interrupted. it was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was the rest of the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and he was at last obliged to resume movement in order to get warm. he struck straight through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road presently, but he was disappointed in this. he travelled on and on; but the farther he went, the denser the wood became, apparently. the gloom began to thicken, by-and-by, and the king realised that the night was coming on. it made him shudder to think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he tried to hurry faster, but he only made the less speed, for he could not now see well enough to choose his steps judiciously; consequently he kept tripping over roots and tangling himself in vines and briers. and how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light! he approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and listen. it came from an unglazed window-opening in a shabby little hut. he heard a voice, now, and felt a disposition to run and hide; but he changed his mind at once, for this voice was praying, evidently. he glided to the one window of the hut, raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance within. the room was small; its floor was the natural earth, beaten hard by use; in a corner was a bed of rushes and a ragged blanket or two; near it was a pail, a cup, a basin, and two or three pots and pans; there was a short bench and a three-legged stool; on the hearth the remains of a faggot fire were smouldering; before a shrine, which was lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an old wooden box at his side lay an open book and a human skull. the man was of large, bony frame; his hair and whiskers were very long and snowy white; he was clothed in a robe of sheepskins which reached from his neck to his heels. "a holy hermit!" said the king to himself; "now am i indeed fortunate." the hermit rose from his knees; the king knocked. a deep voice responded-- "enter!--but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt stand is holy!" the king entered, and paused. the hermit turned a pair of gleaming, unrestful eyes upon him, and said-- "who art thou?" "i am the king," came the answer, with placid simplicity. "welcome, king!" cried the hermit, with enthusiasm. then, bustling about with feverish activity, and constantly saying, "welcome, welcome," he arranged his bench, seated the king on it, by the hearth, threw some faggots on the fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor with a nervous stride. "welcome! many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not worthy, and were turned away. but a king who casts his crown away, and despises the vain splendours of his office, and clothes his body in rags, to devote his life to holiness and the mortification of the flesh--he is worthy, he is welcome!--here shall he abide all his days till death come." the king hastened to interrupt and explain, but the hermit paid no attention to him--did not even hear him, apparently, but went right on with his talk, with a raised voice and a growing energy. "and thou shalt be at peace here. none shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee with supplications to return to that empty and foolish life which god hath moved thee to abandon. thou shalt pray here; thou shalt study the book; thou shalt meditate upon the follies and delusions of this world, and upon the sublimities of the world to come; thou shalt feed upon crusts and herbs, and scourge thy body with whips, daily, to the purifying of thy soul. thou shalt wear a hair shirt next thy skin; thou shalt drink water only; and thou shalt be at peace; yes, wholly at peace; for whoso comes to seek thee shall go his way again, baffled; he shall not find thee, he shall not molest thee." the old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud, and began to mutter. the king seized this opportunity to state his case; and he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension. but the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed. and still muttering, he approached the king and said impressively-- "'sh! i will tell you a secret!" he bent down to impart it, but checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude. after a moment or two he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out, and peered around in the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his face close down to the king's, and whispered-- "i am an archangel!" the king started violently, and said to himself, "would god i were with the outlaws again; for lo, now am i the prisoner of a madman!" his apprehensions were heightened, and they showed plainly in his face. in a low excited voice the hermit continued-- "i see you feel my atmosphere! there's awe in your face! none may be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very atmosphere of heaven. i go thither and return, in the twinkling of an eye. i was made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years ago, by angels sent from heaven to confer that awful dignity. their presence filled this place with an intolerable brightness. and they knelt to me, king! yes, they knelt to me! for i was greater than they. i have walked in the courts of heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs. touch my hand--be not afraid--touch it. there--now thou hast touched a hand which has been clasped by abraham and isaac and jacob! for i have walked in the golden courts; i have seen the deity face to face!" he paused, to give this speech effect; then his face suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again saying, with angry energy, "yes, i am an archangel; a mere archangel!--i that might have been pope! it is verily true. i was told it from heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, i was to be pope! --and i should have been pope, for heaven had said it--but the king dissolved my religious house, and i, poor obscure unfriended monk, was cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!" here he began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile rage, with his fist; now and then articulating a venomous curse, and now and then a pathetic "wherefore i am nought but an archangel--i that should have been pope!" so he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little king sat and suffered. then all at once the old man's frenzy departed, and he became all gentleness. his voice softened, he came down out of his clouds, and fell to prattling along so simply and so humanly, that he soon won the king's heart completely. the old devotee moved the boy nearer to the fire and made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises and abrasions with a deft and tender hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a supper --chatting pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the lad's cheek or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel were changed to reverence and affection for the man. this happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper; then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed, in a small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as a mother might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down by the fire, and began to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way. presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several times with his fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which had escaped from his mind. apparently he was unsuccessful. now he started quickly up, and entered his guest's room, and said-- "thou art king?" "yes," was the response, drowsily uttered. "what king?" "of england." "of england? then henry is gone!" "alack, it is so. i am his son." a black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he clenched his bony hands with a vindictive energy. he stood a few moments, breathing fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky voice-- "dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless and homeless?" there was no response. the old man bent down and scanned the boy's reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing. "he sleeps--sleeps soundly;" and the frown vanished away and gave place to an expression of evil satisfaction. a smile flitted across the dreaming boy's features. the hermit muttered, "so--his heart is happy;" and he turned away. he went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something; now and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around and casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always mumbling to himself. at last he found what he seemed to want--a rusty old butcher knife and a whetstone. then he crept to his place by the fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone, still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating. the winds sighed around the lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the distances. the shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and noted none of these things. at long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and nodded his head with satisfaction. "it grows sharper," he said; "yes, it grows sharper." he took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on, entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in articulate speech-- "his father wrought us evil, he destroyed us--and is gone down into the eternal fires! yes, down into the eternal fires! he escaped us--but it was god's will, yes it was god's will, we must not repine. but he hath not escaped the fires! no, he hath not escaped the fires, the consuming, unpitying, remorseless fires--and they are everlasting!" and so he wrought, and still wrought--mumbling, chuckling a low rasping chuckle at times--and at times breaking again into words-- "it was his father that did it all. i am but an archangel; but for him i should be pope!" the king stirred. the hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his knife uplifted. the boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an instant, but there was no speculation in them, they saw nothing; the next moment his tranquil breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more. the hermit watched and listened, for a time, keeping his position and scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arms, and presently crept away, saying,-- "it is long past midnight; it is not best that he should cry out, lest by accident someone be passing." he glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle handling he managed to tie the king's ankles together without waking him. next he essayed to tie the wrists; he made several attempts to cross them, but the boy always drew one hand or the other away, just as the cord was ready to be applied; but at last, when the archangel was almost ready to despair, the boy crossed his hands himself, and the next moment they were bound. now a bandage was passed under the sleeper's chin and brought up over his head and tied fast--and so softly, so gradually, and so deftly were the knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy slept peacefully through it all without stirring. chapter xxi. hendon to the rescue. the old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like, and brought the low bench. he seated himself upon it, half his body in the dim and flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so, with his craving eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his patient vigil there, heedless of the drift of time, and softly whetted his knife, and mumbled and chuckled; and in aspect and attitude he resembled nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous spider, gloating over some hapless insect that lay bound and helpless in his web. after a long while, the old man, who was still gazing,--yet not seeing, his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction,--observed, on a sudden, that the boy's eyes were open! wide open and staring!--staring up in frozen horror at the knife. the smile of a gratified devil crept over the old man's face, and he said, without changing his attitude or his occupation-- "son of henry the eighth, hast thou prayed?" the boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question. "then pray again. pray the prayer for the dying!" a shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched. then he struggled again to free himself--turning and twisting himself this way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately--but uselessly--to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling, from time to time, "the moments are precious, they are few and precious--pray the prayer for the dying!" the boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles, panting. the tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other, down his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect upon the savage old man. the dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice-- "i may not indulge this ecstasy longer! the night is already gone. it seems but a moment--only a moment; would it had endured a year! seed of the church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an' thou fearest to look upon--" the rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. the old man sank upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the moaning boy. hark! there was a sound of voices near the cabin--the knife dropped from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and started up, trembling. the sounds increased, and presently the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for help; then a clatter of swift footsteps, retreating. immediately came a succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door, followed by-- "hullo-o-o! open! and despatch, in the name of all the devils!" oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the king's ears; for it was miles hendon's voice! the hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway the king heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the 'chapel':-- "homage and greeting, reverend sir! where is the boy--my boy?" "what boy, friend?" "what boy! lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions!--i am not in the humour for it. near to this place i caught the scoundrels who i judged did steal him from me, and i made them confess; they said he was at large again, and they had tracked him to your door. they showed me his very footprints. now palter no more; for look you, holy sir, an' thou produce him not--where is the boy?" "o good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that tarried here the night. if such as you take an interest in such as he, know, then, that i have sent him of an errand. he will be back anon." "how soon? how soon? come, waste not the time--cannot i overtake him? how soon will he be back?" "thou need'st not stir; he will return quickly." "so be it, then. i will try to wait. but stop!--you sent him of an errand?--you! verily this is a lie--he would not go. he would pull thy old beard, an' thou didst offer him such an insolence. thou hast lied, friend; thou hast surely lied! he would not go for thee, nor for any man." "for any man--no; haply not. but i am not a man." "what! now o' god's name what art thou, then?" "it is a secret--mark thou reveal it not. i am an archangel!" there was a tremendous ejaculation from miles hendon--not altogether unprofane--followed by-- "this doth well and truly account for his complaisance! right well i knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the menial service of any mortal; but, lord, even a king must obey when an archangel gives the word o' command! let me--'sh! what noise was that?" all this while the little king had been yonder, alternately quaking with terror and trembling with hope; and all the while, too, he had thrown all the strength he could into his anguished moanings, constantly expecting them to reach hendon's ear, but always realising, with bitterness, that they failed, or at least made no impression. so this last remark of his servant came as comes a reviving breath from fresh fields to the dying; and he exerted himself once more, and with all his energy, just as the hermit was saying-- "noise? i heard only the wind." "mayhap it was. yes, doubtless that was it. i have been hearing it faintly all the--there it is again! it is not the wind! what an odd sound! come, we will hunt it out!" now the king's joy was nearly insupportable. his tired lungs did their utmost--and hopefully, too--but the sealed jaws and the muffling sheepskin sadly crippled the effort. then the poor fellow's heart sank, to hear the hermit say-- "ah, it came from without--i think from the copse yonder. come, i will lead the way." the king heard the two pass out, talking; heard their footsteps die quickly away--then he was alone with a boding, brooding, awful silence. it seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices approaching again --and this time he heard an added sound,--the trampling of hoofs, apparently. then he heard hendon say-- "i will not wait longer. i cannot wait longer. he has lost his way in this thick wood. which direction took he? quick--point it out to me." "he--but wait; i will go with thee." "good--good! why, truly thou art better than thy looks. marry i do not think there's not another archangel with so right a heart as thine. wilt ride? wilt take the wee donkey that's for my boy, or wilt thou fork thy holy legs over this ill-conditioned slave of a mule that i have provided for myself?--and had been cheated in too, had he cost but the indifferent sum of a month's usury on a brass farthing let to a tinker out of work." "no--ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; i am surer on mine own feet, and will walk." "then prithee mind the little beast for me while i take my life in my hands and make what success i may toward mounting the big one." then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and plungings, accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of volleyed curses, and finally a bitter apostrophe to the mule, which must have broken its spirit, for hostilities seemed to cease from that moment. with unutterable misery the fettered little king heard the voices and footsteps fade away and die out. all hope forsook him, now, for the moment, and a dull despair settled down upon his heart. "my only friend is deceived and got rid of," he said; "the hermit will return and--" he finished with a gasp; and at once fell to struggling so frantically with his bonds again, that he shook off the smothering sheepskin. and now he heard the door open! the sound chilled him to the marrow --already he seemed to feel the knife at his throat. horror made him close his eyes; horror made him open them again--and before him stood john canty and hugo! he would have said "thank god!" if his jaws had been free. a moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his captors, each gripping him by an arm, were hurrying him with all speed through the forest. [frontispiece: "_straight away the bird flew_" _see p._ ] two prisoners by thomas nelson page illustrated in color by virginia keep new york r. h. russell mcmiii _copyright, _ _by_ robert howard russell _copyright, _ _by_ harper & brothers _to the memory of_ alfred b. starey _acknowledgments_ are made to messrs. harper & brothers, in whose magazine, _harper's young people_, when under the management of the late alfred b. starey, some years ago, this story in a condensed form first appeared. the story has been rewritten and amplified.--_t.n.p._ illustrations "straight away the bird flew" . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "could see a little girl walking about with her nurse" "mildred played out-of-doors all day long" "'are you a princess?' asked molly" "'mother,' she whispered" two prisoners squeezed in between other old dingy houses down a dirty, narrow street paved with cobble-stones, and having, in place of sidewalks, gutters filled with gray slop-water, stood a house, older and dingier than the rest. it had a battered and knock-kneed look, and it leant on the houses on either side of it, as if it were unable to stand up alone. the door was just on a level with the street, and in rainy weather the water poured in and ran through the narrow little passage leaving a silt of mud in which the children played and made tracks. the windows were broken in many places, and were stuffed with old rags, or in some places had bits of oilcloth nailed over the holes. it looked black and disreputable even in that miserable quarter, and it was. only the poorest and the most unfortunate would stay in such a rookery. it seemed to be in charge of or, at least, ruled over by a woman named mrs. o'meath, a short, red faced creature, who said she had once been "a wash lady," but who had long given up a profession which required such constant use of water, and who now, so far as could be seen, used no liquid in any way except whiskey or beer. the dingiest room in this house was, perhaps, the little hall-cupboard at the head of the second flight of rickety stairs. it was small and dim. its single window looked out over the tops of wretched little shingled houses in the bottom below to the backs of some huge warehouses beyond. the only break in the view of squalor was the blue sky over the top of the great branching elm shading the white back-portico of a large house up in the high part of the town several squares off. in this miserable cupboard, hardly fit to be called a room, unfurnished except with a bed and a broken chair, lived a person--a little girl--if one could be said to live who lies in bed all the time. you could hardly tell her age, for the thin face looked much older than the little crooked body. there were lines around the mouth and about the white face which might have been worn by years or only by suffering. the bed-ridden body was that of a child of ten or twelve. the arms and long hands looked as the face did--older--and as she lay in her narrow bed she might have been any moderate age. her sandy hair was straight and faded; her dark eyes were large and sad. she was known to mrs. o'meath and the few people who knew her at all as "molly." if she had any other name, it was not known. she had no father or mother, and was supposed by the lodgers to be some relative, perhaps a niece, of mrs. o'meath. she had never known her father. her mother she remembered dimly, or thought she did; she was not sure. it was a dim memory of a great brightness in the shape of a young woman who was good to her and who seemed very beautiful, and it was all connected with green trees and grass, and blue skies, and birds flying about. the only other memory was of a parting, the lady covering her with kisses, and then of a great loneliness, when she did not come back, and then of a woman dropping her down the stairs--and ever since then she had been lying in bed. at least, that was her belief; she was not sure that the memory was not a dream. at least, all but the bed, that was real. ever since she knew anything she had been lying a prisoner in bed, in that room or some other. she did not know how she got there. she must belong in some way to mrs. o'meath, for mrs. o'meath looked after her and kept others away. it was not much "looking after," at best. mrs. o'meath used to bring her her food, such as it was--it was not very much--and attend to her wants, and bring her things to sew, and make her sew them. molly suffered sometimes, for she could not walk; she had never walked--at least, unless that vague recollection was true. she had once or twice asked mrs. o'meath about her mother, but she had soon stopped it. it always made mrs. o'meath angry, and she generally got drunk after it and was cross with her. sometimes when mrs. o'meath got drunk she did not come up-stairs at all during the day. she was always kinder to her next day, however, and explained, with much regret, that she had been sick--too sick to get a mouthful for herself even; but other people who lived in the house told molly that she was "just drunk," and molly soon got to know the signs. mrs. o'meath would be cross and ugly and made her sew hard. sometimes she used to threaten her with the poorhouse. molly did not know what that was; she just knew it was something dreadful (like a prison, she thought). she could not complain, however, for she knew very well that what mrs. o'meath did was out of charity for her and because she had promised some one to look after her. the little sewing molly was able to do for her was not anything, she knew. mrs. o'meath often told her so. and it made her back ache so to sit up. the rest of the people in the house were so busy they did not have time to trouble themselves about the child, and mrs. o'meath was cross with them if they came "poking about," as she called it. molly's companions were two books, or parts of books--one a torn copy of the "pilgrim's progress," the other a copy of the "arabian night's entertainment." neither of them was complete, but what remained she knew by heart. she used to question the women in the house, when they would stop at the door, about things outside; but they knew only about their neighbors and their quarrels and misfortunes--who got drunk; who had a new sofa or frock; who had been arrested or threatened by the police, and who had been refused a drink at the bar. molly's questions about the fairies and great ladies simply set her down with them as a half crazy thing. so molly was left to her own thoughts. her little bed was fortunately right by the window, and she could look out over the houses. the pigeons which circled about or walked upon the roofs, pluming themselves and coquetting, and the little brown sparrows which flew around and quarrelled and complained, were her chief companions, and she used to make up stories about them. she soon learned to know them individually, even at a distance, and knew where they belonged. she learned their habits and observed their life. she knew which of them were quiet, and which were blustering; which were shy, and which greedy--most of them were this--and she used to feed them with crumbs on the window-sill. she gave them names out of her books and made up stories about them to herself. they were fairies or genii, and lived under spells; they saw things hidden from the eyes of men, and heard strange music which the ears of men could not catch. one bird, however, interested her more than all the others. it was a bird in a cage, which used to hang outside of the back window of a house not far from hers, but on another street. this bird molly watched more closely than all the rest, and had more feeling for it. shut up within the wire bars, whilst all the other birds were flying so free and joyous, it reminded her of herself. it had not been there very long. it was a mocking-bird, and sometimes it used to sing so that she could hear its notes clear and ringing. she felt how miserable it must be, confined behind its bars, when there was the whole sky outside for it to spread its wings under. (it used to sing almost fiercely at times. molly was sure that it was a prince or princess imprisoned in that form.) shortly after it first came it sang a great deal, yet molly knew it was not for joy, but only to the sky and the birds outside; for it used to flutter and look frightened and angry whenever the woman leaned out of the window; and sometimes the birds would go and look at it in a curious, half pitying way, and it would try to fly, and would strike against the cage and fall down, and then it would stop singing for awhile. molly would have loved to pet it, and then have turned it loose and seen it flying away singing. she knew what joy would have filled its little heart to see again the woods and the green fields and pastures and streams, for she knew how she would have felt to see them. she had never seen them in all her life, unless she had not dreamed that dream. maybe, if it were set free, it would come back sometimes and would sing for her and tell her about freedom and the green fields. or, maybe, it might even go to heaven and tell her mother about her. the bird had not always been in a cage; it had been born in a lilac bush in a great garden, with other lilac bushes and tall hollyhocks of every hue, and rose bushes all around it; and it had been brought up there, and had found its mate in an orchard near by, where there were apple trees white with bloom and a little stream bordered with willows, which sometimes looked almost white, too, when the wind blew fresh and lifted the leaves. it had often sung all night long in the moonlight to its mate; and one day, when it was getting a breakfast for the young in its nest in the lilacs, it had been caught in a trap with slats to it; and a man had come and had carried it somewhere in a close basket, and had put it into a thing with bars all around it like a jail, and with a dirty floor; and a woman had bought it and had kept it shut up ever since in a cage. it had come near starving to death for a while, for at first it could not eat the seed and stuff which covered the bottom of its cage, they were so stale; but at last it had to eat, it was so hungry. it grew sick, though, not being used to being shut up in such a close, hot place, with people always moving about. though its owner was kind to it, and talked to it, and was gentle with it, it could not forget its garden and freedom, and it hoped it would die. the woman used to hang it outside of her window, and after she went away it used to sing, hoping that its mate might hear, and, even if it could not release it, at least might come near enough to sing to it and tell it of its love and loneliness, and of the garden and the lilacs and the orchard and the dew. then, again, when she did not come, it would grow melancholy, and sometimes would try desperately to break out of its prison. sometimes at night it would dream of the lilacs and would sing. how molly watched it and listened to it, and how she pitied it and hoped it knew she was there, too! one other thing that interested molly greatly was the great gray house over beyond the other houses. she supposed it was a palace. there she could see a little girl walking about in the long upper gallery--sometimes alone and sometimes with a colored woman, her nurse. molly had very keen eyes and could see clearly a long distance; but she could not, of course, see the features of the little girl. she could only tell that she had long brown hair, and wore beautiful dresses, sometimes white, sometimes blue, sometimes pink. she knew she must be beautiful, and wondered if she were a princess. she always pictured her so, and she was always on the watch for her. at times she came out with something in her arms, which molly knew was a doll, and molly used to fancy how the doll looked; it must have golden ringlets, and blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and look like a princess. molly felt sure that the little girl must be a princess. the doll would be dressed in silk and embroidery. she set to work, and with her scraps, left from the pieces mrs. o'meath brought her, made a dress and a whole suit of clothes for it, such as she thought it ought to have. the dress was nothing but a little piece of shiny cambric, trimmed with her silk bits, and the underclothes were only cotton; but she flounced the dress with ends of colored thread and embroidered it beautifully, and folded it up in a piece of paper and stuck it away under the mattress where she kept her treasures. [illustration: "_could see a little girl walking about with her nurse_"] one day she saw the little girl on the gallery playing with something that was not a doll; it ran around after her and hung on to her skirt. at first molly could not see it well; but presently the little girl lifted it up in her arms, and molly saw that it was a little dog, a fat, grayish-yellow puppy. for several days it used to come out and play with its little mistress, or she would play with it, lifting it, carrying it, feeding it, hugging and kissing it. molly sighed. oh, how she would have liked to have a little dog like that! her little room looked darker and gloomier than ever. she turned over and tried to sleep, but could not. she was so lonely. she had nothing; she had never had anything. she could not ever hope to have a doll, but, oh, if she had a puppy! next day she thought of it more than ever, and every day afterwards she thought of it. she even dreamed about it at night: a beautiful, fat, yellow puppy came and got up by her on the bed and cuddled up against her and went to sleep. she felt its breathing. she actually saved some of her dinner, her bones, next day, and hid them, to feel that she had some food for it, though she was hungry herself. no puppy came, however, and she had to give it up and content herself with looking out for the puppy on the white gallery under the elm beyond the housetops. ii. the big house, the back of which, with its double porticos and great white pillars, molly could see away up on the hill across the intervening squares, was almost as different from the rickety tenement in which the little cripple lay as daylight is from darkness. it was on one of the highest points in the best part of the city, and was set back in grounds laid off with flower beds and surrounded by a high iron fence. in front it looked out on a handsome park, where fountains played, and at the back, while it looked over a very poor part of the town, filled with small, wretched looking houses, they were so far beneath it that they were almost as much separated from it as though they had been in another city. a high wall and a hedge quite shut off everything in that direction, and it was only from the upper veranda that one knew there was any part of the town on that side. here, however, mildred, the little girl that molly saw with her doll and puppy, liked best to play. mildred was the daughter of mr. glendale, one of the leading men in the city, and she lived in this house in the winter. in the summer she lived in the country, in another house, quite as large as this, but very different. the city house was taller than that in the country, and had finer rooms and handsomer things. but, somehow, mildred liked the place in the country best. the house in the country was long and had many rooms and curious corners with rambling passages leading to them. it was in a great yard with trees and shrubbery and flowers in it, with gardens about it filled with lilacs and rosebushes, and an orchard beyond, full of fruit trees. green fields stretched all about it, where lambs and colts and calves played. and when in the country mildred played out of doors all day long. [illustration: "_mildred played out-of-doors all day long_"] the city mildred did not like. she was a little lame and had to wear braces; but the doctors had always said she must be kept out of doors, and she would become strong and outgrow her lameness. thus she had been brought up in the country, and knew every corner and cranny there. she knew where the robins and mocking-birds nested; the posts where the bluebirds made their homes and brought up their young, and the hollow locusts where the brown jenny wrens kept house, with doors so tiny that mildred could not have gotten her hand in them. in town she felt constrained. there she had to be dressed up and taken to walk by her mammy. in the country she never thought of her lameness; but in town she could not help it. it was hard not to be able to run about and play games like the other children. rough boys, too, would talk about the braces she had to wear, and sometimes would even laugh at her. so she was shy, and often thought herself very wretched. her mother and her mammy used to tell her that she was better off than most little girls, but mildred could not think so. at least, they did not have to wear braces, and could run about where they pleased and play games and slide down hills without any one scolding them for ruining their dresses or not being a lady. mildred often wished she were not a lady, and, though efforts were made to satisfy her least whim, she was dissatisfied and unhappy. a large playroom was set apart for her in town; and it was fitted up with everything that could be thought of. after the first few days it ceased to give her pleasure. the trouble was that it was all "fixed," her playthings were all "made playthings." she had to play according to rule; she could not do as she pleased. in the country she was free; she could run about the yard or garden, and play with the young birds and chickens and "live" things. one "live" thing was, in mildred's eyes, worth all the "made" ones in the world; and if it was sick or crippled, she just loved it. a lame chicken that could not keep up with the rest of the brood, or a bird that had broken its wing falling out of the nest, was her pet and care. her playroom in town was filled with dolls and toys of every size and kind, and in every condition, for a doll's condition is different from that of people; it depends not on the house it lives in and the wealth it has, but on the state of its body and features. mildred's playhouse in the country was a corner of a closet, under the roof. there she used to have war with her mammy, for mammy was very strict, and had severe ideas. so whenever a sick chicken or lame duck was found crying and tucked up in some of the doll's best dresses there was a battle. "i don't want dolls," mildred would say. "it don't hurt a doll to break it; they don't care; and it don't help them to mend them; they can't grow. i want something i can get well and feed." indeed, this was what her heart hungered for. what she wanted was company. she felt it more in the city than in the country. in town she had nothing but dolls. she used to think, "oh, if i just had a chicken or a bird to pet and to love--something young and sweet!" the only place in town where she could do as she pleased was the upper back veranda. thus she came to like it better than any other spot, and was oftenest there. iii. one day when mildred had been dressed up by her mammy and taken out to walk, as she stopped on the edge of the park to rest, a fat, fawn colored puppy, as soft as a ball of wool and as awkward as a baby, came waddling up to her on the street; pulled at her dress; rolled over her feet, and would not let her alone. mildred was delighted with it. it was quite lame in one of its legs. she played with it, and hugged it, and fed it with a biscuit; and it licked her hands and pinched her with its little white, tack-like teeth. after a while mammy tried to drive it away, but it would not go, it had taken too great a fancy to its new found playmate to leave her, and, though mammy slapped at it and scolded it, and took a switch and beat it, it just ran off a little way and then turned around when they moved on and followed them again, coming up to them in the most cajoling and enticing way. when they reached home mammy shut it out of the gate; but it stayed there and cried, and finally squeezed through the fence, scraping its little fat sides against the pickets, and, running up to the porch after them, slipped into the house, and actually ran and hid itself from mammy under some furniture in the drawing-room. mildred begged her father to let her keep the dog. he said she might, until they could find the owner, but that it was a beautiful puppy and the owner would probably want him. mildred took him to her veranda and played with him, and that night she actually smuggled him into her bed; but mammy found him and turned him out of so snug a retreat, and mildred was glad to compromise on having him safely shut up in a box in the kitchen. her father put an advertisement in the papers and every effort was made to find the owner, but he never appeared, which was perhaps due to mildred's fervent prayers that he might not be found. she prayed hard that he might not come after roy, as she named him, even if he had to die not to do so. from that time mildred found a new life in the city. the two were always together, playing and romping. roy was the most adorable of puppies, and was always doing the most comical and unexpected things. at times he would act like a baby, and other times would be as full of mischief as a boy. the upper gallery was mildred's favorite place. her mother had given it up to her. there she could run about, without having mammy scold her for letting roy scratch up the floor. roy made havoc in her playroom; he appeared to have a special fondness for doll babies, and would chew their feet off recklessly. he did not have a wholly easy time, however, for mildred used to insist on dressing him up and making him sleep in her doll's carriage, and, as roy had the bad taste not to appreciate these honors, he had to be trained. mammy had been strict enough with mildred to give her very sound ideas of discipline, so sometimes mildred used to coerce roy till he rebelled with whines. it was all due to affection, however, and roy used to whine more over the huggings his little mistress gave him than anything else. "what you squeezin' dat dog so for? stop dat! don' you heah him crying?" mammy used to say. "'tain' any use havin' a dog if you carn't squeeze him," mildred would reply. whenever they went out roy used to go along. roy was a most inquisitive dog. curiosity was his besetting sin. it got him into more trouble than anything else. he used to chew up lace curtains, and taste the silk of the chair covers in the parlors just to try them, though anything else would have done just as well; and once or twice he actually tried the bottom of mammy's dress. this was a dreadful mistake for him to make, as he found out, for mammy allowed no liberties to be taken with her. "ain't you got no better sense'n to be chawing my frock, dog?" she used to say. "ef you ain't, i gwine teach you better." and she did. when he went out to walk he carried his curiosity to great limits; indeed, as it proved, to a disastrous length. he had grown somewhat and could run about without tripping up over himself every few steps; and as he grew a little older he was always poking into strange yards or around new corners. once or twice he had come near getting into serious trouble, for large dogs suddenly bounded up from door-mats and out of unnoticed corners and appeared very curious to know what business he, a little, fat puppy, had coming into their premises uninvited. in such cases roy always took out as hard as his little fat legs could carry him; or, if they ran after him, he just curled over on his back, holding up his feet in the most supplicating way, till no dog would have had the heart to hurt him. at last one day he disappeared, and no efforts could find him. he was hunted for high and low; advertisements were put in the papers; a reward was offered, and every exertion was made to find him; but in vain. the last that had been seen of him he was playing out in the street in front of the house, and had gone down a side street. it was in the direction of the worst part of the town, and, after he did not turn up, there was no doubt that he was stolen, or maybe killed. mildred was inconsolable. she cried herself almost sick. her father offered to get her another puppy just like roy; but it did no good; it would not be roy, she said; it would not be lame. the sight of the dolls which roy had so often chewed with so much pleasure made her cry afresh. she prayed that he might come back to her. iv. that very afternoon on which roy disappeared molly had just got her dinner--a little soup, with a knuckle-bone in it, and a piece of bread--and she was thinking what a pity the bone was so large, as she was hungry, when she heard something on the staircase outside. the door had been left slightly open by the woman who had brought the dinner, and the sound was quite distinct; it sounded like something dragging up the steps. she thought it was a rat, for there were a great many of them about, and she was wishing the door was shut, for she did not want it to come into her room, and, besides, it was cold. but as she could not reach the door, she was about to begin on her dinner. just as she started, however, she heard a soft and low step at her door, and she looked up. there came a dear, fat, yellow-gray puppy, with a black nose, walking in just as straight and solemnly as if he were a doctor and had a visit to pay. she did not dare to move for fear he would be frightened and go out; but he did not trouble himself. walking straight on, he took a glance around as if to assure himself that this was the place he wanted, and then, looking at her, he gave a queer little switch of his tail, which twisted half his body in the funniest way, and, quickening his pace, came trotting up to her bed and reared up to try and climb up on it. molly put her hand over on it, and he began to lick it rapidly and whimper in his efforts to get up. she gave a little cry of delight and, catching him, pulled him up on the bed. he immediately began to walk over her and lick her face. it was the first time she had ever been kissed in her life that she remembered. the next thing he did was to poke his little head into her soup bucket, and begin to eat as if it belonged to him. he finished the soup and began at the bone. this gave him the greatest delight. he licked and nibbled and chewed it; got his fat paws in, and worked over it. molly, too, got the greatest pleasure out of it. she forgot that she was hungry. suddenly he lay down and went fast asleep snuggled up against her. molly felt as if he were a little fat baby curled up in her arm. her life seemed suddenly to have opened. the only trouble was the fear that mrs. o'meath might take him away and drive him out. to prevent this was her dream. she thought of hiding him, but this was difficult; besides, she wanted to tell mrs. o'meath about him. the puppy stayed with her that night, sleeping beside her, and snuggling up against her like a little child. molly had never spent so happy a night. next morning by light he was awake hunting for his knuckle-bone, and when he got it went to work at it. in the midst of molly's reflections mrs. o'meath walked in. her eye fell on roy, and molly's heart sank. "what's that dirty dog doin' in this room?" roy answered for himself. the hair on his back rose and he began to bark. molly tried to check him. "where did ye git him?" "oh, mrs. o'meath, please, madam, let me keep him. he came from heaven. i haven't anything, and i want him so. hush! you must not bark at mrs. o'meath. hush, sir!" but roy just pulled loose, and, standing astride of molly, barked worse than ever. "not i, indeed. out he goes. 'ave i to be slavin' meself to death for the two of you? it isn't enough for the wan of you, and him barkin' at me like that." "oh, mrs. o'meath, please, madam! i will sew for you all my life, and do everything you want me to do," cried molly. "o god, don't let her take him away from me!" she prayed. whether it was that mrs. o'meath was troubled by the great, anxious eyes of the little girl, and did not have the heart to tear the dog away from her, or whether she thought that perhaps roy was a piece of property worth preserving, she did not take him away. she simply contented herself with abusing him for "a loud-mouthed little baste," and threatening to "teach him manners by choking the red, noisy tongue out his empty head." she actually brought him a new knuckle-bone at dinner time, which greatly modified his hostility. no puppy can resist a knuckle-bone. roy had been with molly four days, and they had been the sweetest days of the crippled girl's life. he had got so that he would play with his bones on the floor, rolling them as a child does a ball. he would come when molly called him, and would play with her, and he slept on her bed beside her. one day he walked out of the room and went down the steps. molly called and called, but to no purpose. he had disappeared; he was gone. molly's heart was almost broken. her room suddenly became a prison; her life was too dark to bear. mildred had prayed and prayed in vain that roy might come back to her, and had at length confided to mammy that she did not believe he was coming, and she was not going to pray any more. she was sure now that she was the most wretched child in the world. she took no pleasure in anything, even in the finest new doll she had ever seen. however, she was playing with her doll on the front portico that morning when roy came walking up the steps as deliberately as if he had just gone out. she gave a little shriek of delight, and ran forward. seeing her, he came trotting up, twisting himself as he always did when he was pleased. she called her mother. there was a great welcoming, and roy was petted like the returned prodigal. mildred determined never again to let him get out of her sight. looking out of her little window next day molly saw her little girl on the white gallery romping with a dog, and her heart was bitter with envy. she glanced down at the cage below her, and the mocking-bird, which, whilst she had the puppy she had almost forgotten, was drooping on his perch. mildred, however, though she watched roy closely, did not have a wholly easy time. after this roy had a wandering fever. one day he was playing in the yard with mildred, who was about to give him a roll she had. near where they were playing stood a rose-bush covered with great red roses. mildred thought it would be great fun to take a rose and tease roy with it. so she turned and broke off from the bush one of the finest. it took some little time, and when she turned back, roy, whether offended at being neglected or struck by some recollection, had squeezed through the fence, and started down the street. mildred called after him, but he paid no attention to her. she opened the gate and ran after him. "roy, roy!" she called. "here, roy, come here." but roy took no heed of her; he just trotted on. when she ran faster he ran, too, just as if she were a stranger. he turned into another street and then another. she had to hurry after him for fear she might lose him. he reached a dirty little narrow street and turned in. she was not far behind him, and she saw the door he went into. she ran to it. he was going up the stairs, climbing steadily one after another. as she did not see anybody to catch him she went on up after him. she saw him enter a door that was slightly ajar, and when she reached it she started to follow him in, but at the sight that caught her eye she stopped on the threshold. there was roy up on a bed licking the face of a little girl, and acting as if he were wild with joy. v. molly's day had been very dark. it was dark without and within. she had suffered a great deal. she had seen the little girl on the gallery playing with her puppy and running about, and her own life had seemed very wretched. mrs. o'meath was drunk and had threatened her with the poorhouse, and she had not got any breakfast; she was very unhappy. it seemed to her that she and the bird in the cage outside the window were the most wretched things in the world. she thought of her mother, and wondered if she should go to heaven if she would know her. perhaps, she would not want her. she lay back and looked around her little dark room, and then shut her eyes and began to pray very hard. it was not much of a prayer, just a fragment, beginning, "our father, who art in heaven"--which had somehow stuck in her memory, and which she always used when she wanted anything. just then she heard a noise outside on the steps. it came pulling up step by step, and roy trotted in at the open door and came bouncing and twisting over toward the bed. in an instant she had him on the bed, and he was licking her face and walking over her. she heard a noise at the door and was aware that some one was there, and, looking up, she saw standing in the door the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld--a little girl with brown curls and big brown eyes. she was bareheaded and beautifully dressed, and her eyes were wide open with surprise. in her hand she held a small green bough, with a wonderful red thing on the end. molly thought she must be a fairy or an angel. mildred had stopped for a moment and was looking at molly. in her sympathy for the poor little thing lying there she forgot all about roy. her eyes were full of pity. "how do you do?" she said, coming softly to the bedside. "oh, very well, thank you," said molly. "my dog has come back." "why, is he your dog, too? he's my dog," said mildred. the face of the crippled child fell. "is he? i thought he was mine. i hoped he was. he came in one day, and i didn't know he belonged to anybody but me. i had been lying here so long i hoped he would always stay with me." the face looked so sad. the large eyes looked wistful, and mildred was sorry that she had claimed the dog. she thought for a moment. "i will give him to you," she said, eagerly. molly's eyes lit up. "oh, will you? thank you so much." "have you got anything to feed him on?" asked mildred. "yes, some bones i put away for him." she pulled from under the side of the bed two bones wrapt in paper, and roy at once seized them and began to gnaw at them. "i have a roll here i will give him," said mildred. "i shall have my lunch when i get back." she held out her roll. molly's eyes glistened. "can i have a little piece of it?" she asked timidly; "i haven't had any breakfast." mildred's eyes opened wide. "haven't had any breakfast, and nearly lunch time! are you going to wait till luncheon?" "'luncheon?' what's that?" said molly. "i get dinner generally; but i am afraid i mayn't get any to-day. mrs. o'meath is drunk." she spoke of it as if it were a matter of course. mildred's face was a study. the idea of such a thing as not getting enough to eat had never crossed her mind. she could not take it in. "here, take this; eat all of it. i will get my mother to send you some dinner right away, and every day." she took hold of molly's thin hand and stroked it in a caressing, motherly sort of way. "what is your name?" she leaned over her and stroked her little dry brow, as her mother did hers when she had a headache. "molly." "molly what?" "i don't believe i've got any other name," said molly. "my mother was named mary." "where is she?" asked mildred. "she's dead." "and your father?" "kilt!" said molly. "'t least i reckon he was. mrs. o'meath says he was. i don't know whether he's dead or not." mildred's eyes opened wide. the idea of any one not knowing whether or not her father was living! "who is mrs. o'meath?" she asked. "she's the lady 't takes care of me." "your nurse?" "n--i don't know. she ain't my mother." "well, she don't take very good care of you, i think," said mildred, looking around with an air of disapproval. "oh! she's drunk to-day," explained molly, busily eating her bread. "drunk!" mildred's eyes opened with horror. "yes. she'll be all right to-morrow." her eyes, over the fragment of roll yet left, were fastened on the rose which mildred, in her chase after roy, had forgotten all about and still held in her hand. "what is that?" she asked, presently. "what? this rose?" mildred held it out to her. "a rose!" the girl's eyes opened wide with wonder, and she took it in her thin hands as carefully as if it had been of fragile glass. "oh! i never saw one before." "never saw a rose before! why, our garden and yard are full of them. i break them all the time." "are you a princess?" asked molly, gazing at her. [illustration: "_'are you a princess?' asked molly_"] mildred burst out into a clear, ringing laugh. "no. a princess!" molly was perhaps a little disappointed, or perhaps she did not wholly believe her. she stroked the rose tenderly, and then held it out to mildred, though her eyes were still fastened on it hungrily. "you can have it," said mildred, "for your own." "oh! for my own? my very own?" exclaimed the cripple, her whole face lit up. mildred nodded. "oh! i never thought i should have a rose for my own, for my very own," she declared, holding it against her cheek, looking at it, smelling it and caressing it all at once, whilst mildred looked on with open-eyed wonder and enjoyment. mildred asked a great many questions, and molly told her all she knew about herself. she had been lying there in that little room for years without ever going out, and she had never seen the country. mildred learned all about her life there; about the birds outside and the bird in the cage. mildred could see it from the window when she climbed upon the bed. she thought of the roses in her garden and of the birds that sang around her home, flying about among the trees, and to think that molly had never seen them! her heart ached. it dawned upon her that maybe she could arrange to have her see it. she asked what she would rather have than anything in the world. "in the whole world?" asked molly. "yes, in the whole world." molly thought profoundly. "i would rather have that bird out there in the cage," she said. mildred was surprised and a little disappointed. "would you?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "well, i will ask my mamma to give me some money to buy it for you. i've got to go now." roy, who had been asleep, suddenly opened his eyes and looked lazily at her. he crawled a little closer up to molly and went asleep again. "here," said molly, "take this." she pulled out of her little store inside the bed where she kept her treasures concealed a little bundle. it was her doll's wardrobe. mildred opened it. "why, how beautiful! where did you get it? it would just fit one of my new dolls." "i made it," said molly. "you did? i wish i could make anything like that," said mildred, admiring the beautiful work. "would you mind something?" molly asked, timidly. "would you let me kiss you?" she looked at her pathetically. mildred leaned over and kissed the poor little pale lips. "thank you," said molly, with a flush on her pale cheeks. "good-bye. i will come again," said mildred, gravely. the eyes of the crippled girl brightened. "oh! will you! thank you." mildred leaned over and kissed her again. as she walked down the dark stairs and out of the narrow damp street into the sunlight she seemed to enter a new world. it came to her how different her lot was, not only from that of the poor little crippled girl lying in that dark prison up that rickety stair, but from many and many others who wanted nearly everything she had in such abundance. she almost trembled to think how ungrateful and complaining she had been, and a new feeling seemed to take possession of her. vi. during the hour of mildred's absence there had been great excitement at her home. they thought she was lost, and they were all hunting for her everywhere when she walked in with her little bundle in her hand. she might ordinarily have been punished for going off without permission, but now they were all too glad to see her back, and she had such a good excuse. even mammy confined herself to grumbling just a little. mildred rushed to her mother's room and told her everything about her visit--about molly and everything connected with her. she drew so graphic a picture of the little cripple's condition that her mother at once had a basket of food prepared and ordered her carriage. mildred begged to go with her, so they set out at once. she had taken notice of the house, and, after driving up one or two streets, they found the right one. she asked her mother to let her carry the basket. when they entered the room mildred's mother found it even worse than mildred had pictured it; but a half hour's vigorous work made a great change, and that night, for the first time in many years, molly slept in a clean bed and in as much comfort as her poor little broken body would admit. that night mildred could hardly sleep for happiness. she had the money to buy the mocking-bird. inquiry was made next day on the street where mildred described the bird as being. it was found that the only bird on the block belonged to a mrs. johnson, "a widow lady who took in sewing." she lived in the third story back room of a certain house and had not been there very long, so no one could tell anything about her except that she owned "a mocker." this, however, was all that was needed, and mildred was promised that next morning the bird should be bought and she should be allowed to take it to molly with her own hands. she planned just the way in which she would surprise her. next morning a servant was sent around to buy the bird. when he returned mildred's high hopes were all dashed to the ground. the owner did not wish to sell the bird. the money was doubled and the servant was sent back. the answer came back: "the bird was not for sale." mildred was grievously disappointed. she could not help crying. "send to the dealer's and buy two birds," said her father. "perhaps the bird is a pet," suggested her mother gently. mildred thought molly did not want any bird--she wanted that one, though she herself did not understand just why, unless it was that she knew that one could sing. "then molly is unreasonable," said mildred's father. mildred was unreasonable, too. if molly did not want any other bird she did not want it either. she persuaded her mammy to walk around through the street where the woman with the mocking-bird lived. she knew the house. just as she passed it the door opened and a woman came down the steps with a bundle. she was dressed in black and looked very poor, but she also looked very kind, and mildred, who was gazing at the door as she came out, asked her timidly:--"do you know mrs. johnson?" "why, i am one mrs. johnson," she said. "whom do you mean?" "the lady that has the mocking-bird," said mildred. "i have a mocking-bird." "have you? i mean the lady that has a mocking-bird and won't sell it," said mildred, sadly. the woman looked down at her kindly and for a moment did not answer. then she said:--"what do you know about it?" "i wanted to buy it," said mildred. "i am sorry i could not sell it to you," said mrs. johnson kindly. "the bird is all the company i have, and besides i don't think it is well. it has not been singing much lately." "hasn't it?" asked mildred. "i wanted it for molly. she wants it." "who is molly?" "the little crippled girl that lives around that way." she pointed. "she lies at a window away, way up. you can almost see her out of your window where the cage hangs. she saw the bird from her window where she lies and that's the reason she wants it." the woman looked down at the little girl thoughtfully. the big eyes were gazing up at her with a look of deep trouble in them. "you can have the bird," she said suddenly. "wait, i will get it." and before mildred could take in her good fortune she had gone back into the house, and a second later she brought down the cage. mildred had not just understood that it was to be brought her then, and a new difficulty presented itself. "but i haven't any money," she said. "i don't want any money," said the poor lady. "but i can send it to you." "i don't want any; i give it to you." mildred was not sure that she ought to accept the bird this way. "do you think mamma would mind it?" she asked earnestly. "not if she ever had a crippled child," said the woman. "she had. but i'm well now," said mildred. she took the cage and bore it down the street, talking to her mammy of the joy molly would have when she took the bird to her. the poor woman suddenly turned and went back into the house and up the stairs, and a second later was leaning out of the window scanning one by one every window in sight. mildred and her mammy soon found the rickety house where molly lived, and as mildred climbed the stairs to molly's room, though she walked as softly as she could, her heart was beating so she was afraid molly might hear it. curious faces peeped at her as she went up, for the visit to molly of the day before was known, but mildred did not mind them. she thought only of molly and her joy. she reached the door and opened it softly and peeped in. molly was leaning back on her pillow very white and languid; but she was looking for her, and she smiled eagerly as she caught her eye. mildred walked in and held up the cage. molly gave a little scream of delight and reached out her hands. "oh, mildred, is it--?" she turned and looked out of the window at the place where it used to hang. yes, it was the same. mildred had a warm sensation about the heart, which was perfect joy. "where shall i put it?" she asked. "he looks droopy, but mrs. johnson says he used to sing all the time. he is not hungry, because he has feed in the cage. i don't know what is the matter with him." "i do," said molly, softly. she showed where she wanted the cage, and mildred climbed up and put it in the open window. then she propped molly up. she had never seen molly's eyes so bright, and her cheeks had two spots of rich color in them. she looked really pretty. she put her arm around the cage caressingly. the frightened bird fluttered and uttered a little cry of fear. "never mind," murmured molly, softly, as she pulled at the catch. "it is only a minute more, and there will be the fields and the sky." the peg was drawn out and she opened the door wide. the bird did not come out; it just fluttered backwards and forwards. molly pushed the cage a little further out of the window. the bird got quiet. it turned its head and looked out of the door. mildred had clasped her hands tightly, and was looking on with speechless surprise. she thought it might be some spell of molly's. the bird hopped out of the cage on to the window-sill and stood for a second in a patch of sunlight. it craned its neck and gazed all around curiously; turned and looked at the cage, and then fastened its eye steadily on molly, shook itself in the warm air, gave a little trill, almost a whimper, and suddenly tore away in the sunlight. mildred gave a little gasp, "oh!" but molly did not move a muscle. straight away the bird flew, at first up and then on over the black houses and the smoke toward the blue sky over mildred's home, his wings beating the fresh spring air, on, on, growing smaller to the sight, flying straight for the open country--a mere speck--till at last he faded from sight. molly lay motionless, with her gaze still on the fair blue sky where he had disappeared, as if she could still see him. her lips had been moving, but now were stilled. "there!" she said, softly. "at last!" and sank back on the pillow, her eyes closed, her face full of deep content. mildred sat and gazed at her, at first with a vague wonder and then almost with awe. a new idea seemed to enter her mind. could molly be sending the mocking-bird to heaven with a message to her mother? vii. the poor lady who had given mildred the bird was still leaning out of her window studying the backs of the houses on the other street down below hers in the direction the little girl had gone, when at the top window of one of the oldest and most tumbled-down houses there was a movement, and a flash of sunlight on something caught her eye. yes, that was the place. looking hard, she could make out what was going on. she could see the cage set on the window sill and two little figures on the bed at the open window. it was a flash of sunshine on the cage which had reached her. she knew now where the bird would hang, and if it ever sang again she would be able to hear it faintly. in the distant past she had heard birds singing at least that far off. she was watching intently, when to her astonishment she saw the bird step out on the sill into the sunlight, and the next second it dashed away. it had escaped! with a gasp she watched it until it rose above the housetops and disappeared far away in the depths of the blue sky. when it had quite disappeared she looked back at the window. the two little figures were there as still as ever. there was no excitement. could they have set the bird free on purpose? she gazed at them long and earnestly, then turned and looked back at the sky where the bird had faded from her view. it was deep and fathomless, without a speck. her thoughts followed the lost bird--away over the housetops into the country, into the past, into the illimitable heavens. her life was all spread out before her like a panorama. she saw a beautiful country of green fields, where lambs skipped and played; gardens filled with flowers, and orchards with clouds of bloom, where bees hummed all day long and birds sang in the leafy coverts. a little girl was playing there as free as the birds; as joyous as the lambs. in time the little girl grew to be a big girl. and one day a lad came up the country road and stopped at the gate and looked across at her. he was shy, but pleasant looking, and after a moment he opened the gate and came straight up to her and asked for lodging. he was unlike any one else she had ever known. he had come from a state far away. he looked into her eyes, and she felt a sudden fear lest her father would not take him in. he was, however, given lodging, and he stayed on and on, and helped her father on the farm. he knew more than any one she had ever seen, and he bought her books and taught her. the girl's whole life seemed to open up under his influence, and in his presence. she used to wander with him through the pleasant woods; among the blossoms; in the moonlight; reading with him the books he brought her; finding new realms of which she had never dreamed. then one evening he had leaned over, and put his arm around her and begun to speak as he had never spoken before. her happiness was almost a pain, and yet it was only such pain as the bud must feel when the warm sun unfolds its petals and with its deep eyes seeks its fragrant heart. the young girl's life suddenly opened as that rose opens; and for a time she seemed to walk in paradise. then clouds had gathered; talk of war disturbed the peace of her quiet life. her lover was on one side, her father on the other. one day the storm burst. war came. her husband felt that he must go. her father said that if she went with him she could never more come back. her heart was torn asunder and yet she could not hesitate. her place was with her husband. so she had parted from her father; she half fainting with sorrow, he white and broken, yet both sustained by the sense of duty. for a time there had been great happiness in a baby girl, who, though feeble, was the light of her eyes. the doctors said if she were taken care of she would outgrow her trouble. then came a bitterer parting than the first; her husband went off to the war, leaving her a stranger in a strange land, with only her baby. even this was not the worst. shortly came the terrible tidings that her husband had been desperately wounded and left in the enemy's hands. she must go to him. she learned at the last moment that she could not take her child with her. yet it was life or death. she must go. then providence had seemed to open the way. unexpectedly she met an old friend; a woman who had been a servant of her mother's in the old days back at her old home. though she had one weakness, one fault, she was good and kind, and she had always been devoted to her. she would take care of her child. so she left the little girl with her, together with the few pieces of jewelry she possessed. she herself set off to go through the lines to her husband. it was a long journey. in time she arrived at the place where he had been. but it was too late. he was gone. all that was left was an unmarked mound in a field of mounds. since that time there had been for her nothing but graves. just then the lines were closely drawn, and before she could get back through them she had heard from the woman that her child was dead of a pestilence that had broken out, and she herself dying. so she was left. in her loneliness she had turned to her father. she could go to him. he, too, was dead. the war had killed him. his property had melted away. the old home had passed from his hands and he himself had gone, one of the unnamed and unnumbered victims. when at length the war had closed the widowed and childless woman had gone back to where she had left her child, to find at least its grave. but even this was denied her. there had been a pestilence, and in war so many are falling that a child's death makes no difference except to those who love it. the mother could not find even the grave to put a flower on. since that time she had lived alone--always alone except for the memories of the past. her gift with her needle enabled her to make enough to keep body and soul together. but her heart hungered for that it had lost. of late her memories had gone back much to her girlhood; when she had walked among the fruit trees with the lambs frisking and the birds singing about her. she had bought the mocking-bird to sing to her. it bore her back to the time when her lover had walked beside her; and there had been no thought of war, with its blood and its graves. she tried to blot out that dreadful time; to obliterate it from her memory; to bridge it over, except for the memory of her child--with its touch, its voice, its presence. always that called her, and she prayed--if she only might find its grave. for this she had come back once more to the place where she had left it, and where she knew its grave was. she had not found it; but had put flowers on many unmarked little mounds; and had blessed with her tender eyes many unknown little crippled children. the mention of the crippled girl had opened her heart. and now when she lifted her head she was in some sort comforted. she rose and took up her bundle, and once more went down into the street. she determined to go and see the little crippled child who had let her bird go. she could not go, however, till next day, and when she went she learned that the child had been taken away by a rich lady and sent to a hospital. this was all the people she saw knew. she did not see mrs. o'meath. viii. as soon as molly could be moved she was taken from the hospital out to mildred's country home. she had pined so to see the country that the doctors said it might start her towards recovery and would certainly do her good. so mildred's mother had closed her town house earlier than usual and moved out before easter. from the very beginning it seemed to do her good. the fresh air and sunshine; the trees just putting on their spring apparel; the tender green grass; the flowers, and the orchards filled with bloom, all entranced her and invigorated her. she loved to be out of doors, to lie and look at the blue sky, with the great white clouds sailing away up in it (she said they were great snow islands that floated about in the blue air), and to listen to the songs of the birds flitting about in the shrubbery and trees. she said she felt just as that mocking bird must have done that day when he stood in the warm sunshine and saw the blue sky above him when he got out of prison. mildred used to take her playthings and stay with her, and read to her out of her story books, whilst roy would lie around and look lazy and contented. there was no place where he loved to sleep so well as on molly's couch, snuggled up against her. one afternoon she was lying on her couch out in the yard. mildred was sitting by her, and roy was asleep against her arm. it was easter sunday, and everything was unusually quiet and peaceful. there had been a good deal of talk about easter. molly did not know what easter was, and she had been wondering all day. mildred herself had mentioned it several times. she had a beautiful new dress, and mrs. johnson, the lady who had given her the mocking bird, and for whom her mother had gotten a place, had made it. still to molly's mind this was not all that easter meant. molly had heard something about somebody coming back from the dead. this had set her to thinking all day. she knew about sunday, because that day people did not go to work as on other days; and could not go into the barroom by the front door, and some of them went to church. but easter was different. something strange was to happen. but nothing had happened. mildred had been to church with her mother; but no one had come. even the poor lady who had made mildred's dress, and who had been invited to come out to the country and spend easter, had not appeared; and had written that she could not come until the evening, if she could get off at all. so molly was puzzled and a little disappointed. she had waited all day and no one had come. she must have misunderstood or else they had told her a lie. now mildred was sitting by her. "mildred," she said. mildred leaned over her. "well, what is it?" "do you think my mother will know me when i get to heaven? i was so little when she went away." mildred told her that a mother would know her child always. "just so." this seemed to satisfy her. a mocking-bird on a lilac bush began to sing. it sang until the air seemed to be filled with music. "molly," said mildred, "i wonder if that is not your mocking-bird?" molly's eyes turned slowly in that direction. "i think maybe he went to heaven that day, to my mother," she said, softly. "and told your mother that you set him free?" suddenly molly spoke, slowly and softly. "mildred, i am very happy," she said. "if i had all the money in the world, do you know what i would do with it?" "no. what?" mildred took her hand and leaned over her. she did not answer immediately. she was looking at the far away horizon beyond the blue hills, where the softly fading light was turning the sunset sky into a land of purple and gold. presently she said:-- "i would buy up all the birds in the world that are in cages--every one--and set them free." mildred looked at her in vague wonder. "mildred, what is easter?" she asked suddenly. mildred was astonished. the idea of any one not knowing what easter was! "why easter was the time when----" she paused to find just the word she wanted, and as it did not come to her mind she began to think what easter really was. it was harder to explain than she had thought. of course, she knew; but she just could not remember exactly all about it. oh! yes---- "why easter is the time when you have nice things--a new dress and don't have to give up butter or candy, or any thing you want to eat--don't you know?" this was beyond molly's experience. she did not know. mildred was not satisfied with her explanation. she added to it. "why, it's the day christ rose from the dead--don't you know?" "is that a fairy tale?" asked molly. "no, of course not; it's the truth." mildred looked much shocked. molly looked a little disappointed. "oh! i was in hopes it was a fairy tale. tell me about it." mildred began, and told the story; at first in vague sentences merely to recall it to molly's memory, and then as she saw the interest of her hearer, in full detail with the graphic force of her own absolute belief. she had herself never before felt the reality of the story as she did now, with molly's eager eyes fastened on her face; her white face filled with wonder and earnestness, her thin hand holding hers, and at times clutching it until it almost hurt her. she began with the birth in the manger and ended with the rising in the garden. "and did he sure 'nough come back--what you call rise again?" said molly presently. mildred nodded. she was still under the spell of molly's vivid realization of it. "and where is he now?" "he went back up to heaven." mildred looked up in the sky. molly too looked up and scanned the pale blue cloudless depths. "can he send back anybody he wants?" mildred thought so. "then i'm going to ask him to send back my mother to me," she said. "i did not know about him. i always asked god; but i never thought he would do it. i always thought he had too much to do to think about a poor little thing like me--except once. i asked him not to let mrs. o'meath take roy and he didn't. but i never asked that other one. maybe that's the reason he never did it before. he'll know about it and maybe he'll do it, because he was a little child too once, and he must know how bad i want her." she ducked her head down, squeezed her eyes tightly, and remained so about two minutes. this was a little too complicated for mildred's simple theology. she was puzzled; but she watched molly with a vague, curious interest. molly opened her eyes and gazed up to the skies with an air of deep relief, not unmingled with curiosity. "now, i'm going to see if he'll do it," she said. "i've asked him real hard three times, and if he won't do it for that i ain't ever goin' to ask him no more." mildred felt shocked, but somehow molly's eagerness impressed her, and she too followed molly's gaze up into the deep ether, and sat in silence. roy moved his head a little and licked molly's hand gently. the mocking-bird sang sweetly in the softening light. the only other sound was that of footsteps coming softly across the grass. mildred, half turning, could see from where she sat. her mother and another person, who, as she came near, mildred saw was mrs. johnson, the poor woman who had given her the mocking-bird, were coming together. as they came nearer mildred's mother was just saying:-- "this is the little girl who turned the bird loose." molly was still watching the far off skies, too earnest to hear the new comers. mrs. johnson's eyes fell on her. she stopped; started on again; stopped again, and drew her hand across her forehead, as if she were dreaming and trying to awake. the next second with a cry she was down on her knees beside molly's lounge, her arms around her. "my baby----!" the cripple lay quite still, gazing into her eyes with vague wonder. then a sudden light seemed to fall across her face. "mother?" she whispered, with an awed inquiry in her tone. then as she caught the look in the eyes fastened on hers the inquiry passed away and a deeper light seemed to illumine her face. [illustration: "_'mother,' she whispered_"] "mother!" she cried. the end